The Emerald Isle (10 page)

Friday, September 22, 1234
The Kingdom of Connacht, Éireann

M
urchadh stiffened as the king’s little imp slipped through the doorway and ducked behind a tapestry. He folded his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits, horror snaking down his backbone and coiling in his belly as the king continued to speak, oblivious to the cheeky intruder. The girl was a bloomin’ eejit, likely to find herself hauled into the circle of her fathers men and severely scolded…if she was discovered.

When a moment passed and the tapestry did not move or tumble from its fastenings, Murchadh slowly exhaled and forced his attention back to the king.

The imp, he thought, watching as Felim O’Connor paced before his chiefs and warriors, was naught but a burden to him, despite her smiles and bold laugh and charming ways. At eighteen, the girl ought to have been in the care of a husband, but no suitors had come calling at Rathcroghan in months. Her mother credited Cahira’s maidenhood at so vast an age to the unsettled state of affairs in Connacht; her father blamed the crown that had unexpectedly come to rest upon his head.

“I’m thinking my authority intimidates them,” Felim had confided one afternoon when he and Murchadh stood watching the girl practice with her bow. “She might have married any decent lad in Connacht, but none want to inherit this crown or her royal position.”
And so, after outgrowing—
outlasting
was probably the better word—her nurses and tutors, Felim o’ the Connors placed his daughter in her Uncle Murchadh’s charge and care.

Murchadh leaned upon the arm of his chair and rubbed his beard. If any intimidation was being practiced in Cahira’s courtship, it doubtless came from the lady herself. Her shockingly direct eyes looked up and through a man, seeing even those things he wanted to hide. It was as if she knew the secrets men shared in the garrison late at night and had scraped against them often enough to wear the blush off her cheek.

He felt heat steal into his own face as he glanced back at the tapestry. Perhaps she
had
heard all their secret stories. The ease with which she slipped into the room bespoke a familiarity with spying.

“Murchadh, my esteemed friend and brother by marriage, what say you?”

The warrior jerked at the sound of his name, then felt heat sear his cheeks again. “My king?”

“The Normans. Since they are encamped at Athlone, and with our cousin Philip, do we stand to gain more by ignoring their requests or by answering?”

Murchadh leaned forward and tented his hands, gathering his scattered thoughts. “I cannot help but believe Richard de Burgo plans to claim Connacht for his own,” he replied, hoping he was not treading over recently discussed ground. The king and his men had been debating the Norman issue for weeks, ever since Richard de Burgo left his family stronghold in Limerick and camped at Athlone, only an hour’s ride from Felim’s fortress. Some of the king’s men believed that Richard had entered Connacht only to curry the good favor of the present Irish king; others archly insisted that the Norman baron’s visit was nothing but a thinly disguised scouting mission. The latter idea had much to recommend it, for seven years ago the English court at Dublin had awarded “the land of Connacht” to the politically powerful
baron. For their part, the native Irish ignored the court’s judgment, and for many years it appeared that Richard had too.

Until now.

The king’s brows pulled into an affronted frown. “I’m not forgetting de Burgo’s claim. But I’m wanting to know what you think of his recent letters inviting me to meet with him.”

Murchadh shrugged, then froze as the tapestry undulated against the back wall. “I think,” he said, averting his eyes and stumbling over his suddenly thick tongue, “that you are wise to maintain your course, Felim. The O’Connors have ruled Connacht without help for years, and you’re not needing help now. Ignore the man, and think of your own people. Let the Norman wind blow all he wants; there’s no strength in him.”

Felim stared into the empty space in the center of the chamber. “Aye, but Philip reports there are more than twenty knights at Athlone alone. They spend their days practicing with the sword and bow and lance, cutting up his fields as they race at each other—”

“They are fools, then, and haven’t I said so?” Murchadh looked around the room for any who would dispute him, then quickly brought his hand to his temple, shielding his eyes from the living lump in the tapestry. He could have sworn that the spy had given the wall hanging an emphatic thump.

Rian, the king’s distant cousin, lifted his hand. “Richard’s last letter,” he said, his blue eyes shooting sparks in all directions, “invited the men of Rathcroghan to participate in tomorrow’s tournament. I must confess, I am certainly of a mind to accept—”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Felim interrupted, absolute finality in his voice. “Think you that we should go down there and
assure
Richard that we are not as skilled with the sword as his men?” He swept his audience with a piercing glance. “Faith, let us not deceive ourselves! We are mighty warriors all, men of valiant hearts, and I know full well that you would defend your homes and your king with your last breath. But you are Irishmen, born free to work the land
God has given you, and ’tis not your fault the land demands your sweat and blood. Let these Normans and their knights spend the livelong day playing at swords and horses. We have more important things to do.”

A sudden soft sneeze broke the stillness, and Murchadh drew himself up, swallowing to bring his heart down from his throat. The king would look toward the back of the room; he would see the mountain in the tapestry and know the imp had ventured into yet another place where she did not belong… But Felim kept his eyes on the floor, his brow creased in concentration. More important things pressed on his mind; the noise escaped his notice entirely.

Murchadh glanced around the circle. None of the other men had noticed either. Perhaps only his nerves were attuned to such soft sounds. Sure, and none of the others had trained themselves to think like the imp, to be ready for anything, any time, any place.

He lifted his chin on the pretext of scratching the soft hair at his neck, then let his gaze drift toward the back wall. Below the tapestry’s bottom edge, in full view of any man bold enough to turn and look, the mud-spattered hem of Cahira’s gown was clearly visible, along with two feet, short and slender in their soft leather pampooties. Murchadh felt his stomach tighten when he saw one foot nervously tapping the stone floor.

Always moving, she was, continually darting from the garrison to the stable to the courtyard. Murchadh turned from the sight of her impatient foot and sank slightly in his chair. Though her father had never minded that Cahira did not keep to the house or the kitchen like a proper maiden, she would be the death of Murchadh if her father found her hiding in his council hall.

Utterly miserable, Murchadh closed his eyes and prayed that for once his niece would remember to keep still.

Pressed into the narrow space between the heavy tapestry and the wall, Cahira turned and leaned against the cool stone, hoping that her slipper-shod feet weren’t
too
obvious. She wasn’t likely to be discovered, for
most of the men sat facing her father, and he seemed to have a firm grip on their attention.

His topic certainly gripped hers. For days now the men had done nothing but murmur about Richard’s company of Norman knights, and Cahira’s curiosity extended far beyond the horizon. She had never seen a Norman; had never heard French, their language; had never beheld one of their bloody tournaments. Her world at Rathcroghan, which consisted of the family rath and the hedge-bordered fields beyond, had never even had a Norman in it. But now a flock of them had descended upon Athlone!

Cahira crossed her hands behind her back and leaned upon them. Someone in the room beyond asked whether her father ought to attend the tournament on the morrow merely to appear interested in maintaining the peace with Richard, but her father immediately bellowed out his refusal.

She had learned many things from her father, but Cahira always found his indirect lessons far more meaningful than his demonstrations. He had taught her how to string a bow, nock an arrow, and hit a target, skills that she found useful when she went out to rid the fields of jackrabbits. But from him she had also learned that he who roars loudest wins the argument, and he who rushes unexpectedly with a sword usually lands an effective blow.

Imitating her father, last week she had surprised Murchadh with a sudden lunge while they were playing at swords. After wiping a stream of blood from his bare arm, the old warrior congratulated her on her
audacity
.

“Audacity?” The word was English, and new to her.

“Bold courage,” he explained in Gaelic. “Lorcan the brehon taught me.”

Cahira smiled at the memory, knowing the brehon would certainly admire her
audacity
if he knew she was hiding ten feet behind his chair. Not even he, one of those revered personages who had absorbed the annals of Irish lore and law, royal genealogies, and a forbiddingly large number of magic spells and incantations, would dare
to eavesdrop on a king’s council meeting. Lorcan sat in the room now at the king’s invitation.

Someone in the chamber beyond interrupted with a question about cattle, and Cahira let her head fall back to the stone wall. The tapestry sighed with her movement, then settled upon her forehead and the tip of her nose. She caught her breath, repressing another sneeze as the smoky scents of last winter’s fires filled her nostrils.

The dull debate about cattle and the autumn slaughter continued, so she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift into more interesting channels. What were the Normans truly like? Some of the men said they were bloodthirsty savages; others claimed they were dreamy-eyed fools, compelled to honor a code of behavior that valued poetry and dancing and sighing for love from afar. The traveling poets, the
filid
, told of Normans riding huge horses that clanked with colorful and useless metal trappings. “They pray devoutly,” one poet recently told Felim’s household as he entertained after dinner, “though some say they are more loyal to their masters than to God.”

Cahira lifted her eyes and studied the woven lining before her eyes. How much of her acquired knowledge about the Normans was false and how much true? She would never know unless she ventured to Athlone and studied them herself.

A tickle threatened her nostrils again, and Cahira automatically lifted her finger to her nose, accidentally batting the tapestry. As the fabric shuddered, she held her breath and prayed her father would not be distracted by the movement, then exhaled in a long, silent sigh as the heavy curtain came to rest.

Her father was a brave man, but apparently he lacked curiosity and
audacity.
The Normans had camped less than an hour’s ride away, and yet her father had no desire to see them. Part of her marveled at his strange lack of interest, while another part entirely understood his reasons. Time and history had proven one fact over again: Bad things happened to O’Connors who ventured away from home.

Cahira’s grandfather, the great Cathal O’Connor, had signed a treaty with King John of England guaranteeing the rights o’ the Connors
to rule Connacht for as long as their line continued, but Cathal had scarce been put in his grave before the English court at Dublin voided those rights. Richard de Burgo, who had long coveted the fertile fields to the west of the River Shannon, then claimed that the people of Connacht were no longer loyal to the English Crown, worn by a gangly seventeen-year-old Henry III. The charge was utterly baseless, for the people of Connacht had continued to send their tributes to England, but Richard de Burgo’s uncle, Hubert, just happened to be young Henry’s chief counselor….

And so, on paper if not in practice, the O’Connors lost the royal position they had occupied since the beginning of recorded Irish history. Shortly after this unjust judgment, Aedh, Connacht’s king and Cahira’s uncle, was summoned to Dublin by agents of the English Crown and murdered in a so-called petty dispute among gentlemen.