The Emerald Isle (13 page)

“Aristocracy.” Cahira tried the word out on her tongue, then cut her gaze back to the riverbank. Were the two Normans she sought part of the aristocracy? Or were they from the group that had to bow and wave their hands before their master?

She moved around the tree trunk, relieving her left hip from the bite of the tree’s rough bark. The daughter of an English king—
the
English king—must certainly be part of the aristocracy. While she, the daughter of an Irish king who openly paid tribute to the English king, must be what? In Éireann, she certainly belonged to the ruling group, for she and her family were part of the educated
aes dana
that
included clergymen, poets, brehons, and kings. Uneducated craftspeople—smiths, physicians, and harpists—belonged to the
saer.
People who possessed no skills but farming were the betagh, and they belonged to the land and whoever possessed it.

But the groups were fluid, and any man could move from one group to a higher one if he studied and worked to improve himself. Moreover, there were no outward distinctions between the groups. A king of the
aes dana
might be better dressed than his betagh, but he would certainly not require his servant to bend and bow and slap his cap every time he passed by. Why should he? The Irish right of kingship could be granted to any man within a previous king’s extended family, and whoever owned the title also bore the responsibility of protecting his people. He did not make the laws or serve as a judge. The brehons embodied Irish law; they dispensed justice.

To a Norman accustomed to English ideas about aristocracy, Cahira decided, she would be little better than a betagh. She felt a ripple of mirth at the thought.

Sorcha’s strained voice broke into her reverie. “Please, lass, my throat is parched. Do you think we could step down to the river for a drink?”

Cahira swallowed, suddenly appreciating her own thirst. A chill had settled into their shady hiding place, and the sunshine on the tall river grasses beckoned irresistibly. She glanced up and down the river and noted that the riverbank stood as empty as before. Not a single Norman—common or aristocratic—in sight.

“Sure, and why shouldn’t we go to the water?” After unpinning her cloak, she tossed it over a bent tree branch, then lumbered forward, disappointment making her feet heavy. “After that, I suppose we should turn back. Rian must have been wrong about seeing the Normans in this area, or they have already departed.”

A fly swooped down from the sky to buzz around Cahira’s ear. She swatted it away, then stepped out onto the grass and leaned backward, resisting the bank’s steep slope. Within a moment she and
Sorcha were kneeling on the soft muddy bank by the river’s edge, their hands cupped in the cool water.

“Och, and that’s cold!” Sorcha shivered dramatically as she paused to slurp a long draft of the sparkling water. Then she reached for another handful and squealed when her pass caught a small minnow.

“Hush your screaming, or you’ll scare the wee bugs from their hiding places.” Cahira pressed her wet hand to the warm place at the nape of her neck. Her waist-long hair, remarkable for the white streak that began at her left temple and zagged like a lightning bolt through the red plait, hung in a single wrist-thick braid. Cahira often thought she would never be properly cool as long as the weight of a lifelong braid pressed upon the back of her neck.

“Are you warm then?” Sorcha’s eyes widened.

“A little.”

A mischievous light filled the maid’s eye. “Well, perhaps a little cooling off will do you good!”

Before Cahira realized her peril, Sorcha ran her cupped hand through the water again, sending a spray of silver drops in Cahira’s direction. Sputtering in surprise, Cahira responded with a fervor Sorcha did not expect. Giggling and laughing, the girls waded into knee-deep water and splashed each other with abandon, the chilly water stinging their sun-warmed faces.

As Sorcha threw up her hands and splashed toward the shore in a noisy retreat, Cahira stooped to wipe a smear of mud from her cheek. She smiled, grateful that Sorcha was no longer miffed about leaving the fortress, but her skin chilled when Sorcha let out a fearful squeak. “Cahira! Do you hear?”

Cahira froze in the water, her ears straining for whatever sound had spooked her maid. A jangling sound came to her on the wind, accompanied by the steady, rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves.

She felt a cold panic prickle down her spine. The riders were coming from the north, which meant they
could
be Irish, but that jingle
was a foreign sound, signifying harness and armor no Gael would wear.

Normans! At least a pair of them, coming from the north. And close enough that they would see the girls if they tried to flee the river.

Sorcha realized the truth too. The maid’s face, sheened with water, had gone dead white.

“Go deep into the water.” Cahira turned and gestured toward the bank of reeds growing near the shore. “Get into the reeds. Crouch in the water just there, among the rushes, but move carefully. Do not make a sound.”

Sorcha opened her mouth as if to protest, but Cahira grasped her arms and pulled her into the water. The girl moved woodenly, as if her spirit had fled and left only a clumsy doll in its place, but Cahira had no qualms about propelling the doll into the thickest growth of the reeds. Once she was certain Sorcha had found stable footing, Cahira knelt in the water beside her, blocking the girl’s escape. Lowering herself into water that seemed much colder than it had only a moment ago, she tried hard not to think about what might be lurking beneath the surface—and thanked God that Saint Patrick had banished all snakes from Ireland long ago.

As long as Sorcha did not panic and scream, the thick reeds would be more than adequate camouflage. Cahira settled herself in the water, sinking until the river lapped at her chin, then felt her heart contract in a paroxysm of mingled anticipation and fear when the Normans drew up and stopped at the clearing. She had wanted to see Normans, and she could not have chosen a better hiding place—or a riskier one—than the river itself.

These men were warriors—knights, she supposed, for each wore the peculiar metal tunic she had heard her father’s men describe as mail armor. Over the mail they wore brightly colored sleeveless garments of bright blue, emblazoned with a white cross. The pewter-colored mail, however, covered their arms, legs, and apparently even their bodies, for the air filled with a faintly metallic sound when they dismounted and led their horses toward the river. Sharp metal
spurs protruded from the backs of their heels and tore at the long grass, while a sword hung from a belt at each man’s waist and slapped against the muscled thighs. Upon their heads, Cahira noted as she lifted her gaze, each man wore a dull silver helmet.
An odd choice for headgear
, she thought, shrinking further into the reeds as the men led their horses down the sloping bank.
’Tis shaped altogether too much like a milking bucket to inspire fear in an enemy
.

At first glance the knights seemed as alike as twins, but then she studied their faces and discovered a world of difference. Though the first knight appeared compact and muscular beneath his strange costume, the face that turned toward Cahira was fleshy and pockmarked. As his horse began to drink, he removed his helmet and pushed the mail hood off his hair, then noisily splashed his face, as comfortable in the water as a pup.

His companion seemed more cautious. He led his horse into the water as well, but stopped on the bank and dipped his strange helmet into the stream. While his companion frolicked, the second knight dipped his hand into his helmet, then pressed the cool water to his cheeks, neck, and forehead. Only after several minutes did he push back his mail coif and allow Cahira to see dark and lustrous hair, with copper highlights that sparked in the sun. He was a good-sized man, tall and broad through the shoulder. The strange coat of mail became him.

The men were roughly of the same age, Cahira guessed, about thirty years. They rode well, they carried themselves with confidence, and the second man’s countenance was particularly well formed and pleasant. She saw no scars upon either man, no evidence of plunder hanging from their saddles, no blood dripping from their gloves or their swords.

Faith, these Normans weren’t vicious marauders—they were rather handsome men!

She was about to give them her complete and utter approval until the free-splashing one began to speak in a melodic language she had never heard.

I
’ll say this for the ignorant Gaels,” Oswald said, shaking his head so that water flew, “they certainly have a lovely land. Fine-looking horses, too—and the women! That flaming-haired wench upriver was a treat for these weary eyes.”

Colton lifted a brow. “The Irish say that if you meet a red-haired woman on a journey, you’d be wise to turn back.”

“Turn back to her house, perhaps.” Oswald’s mouth twisted in something not quite a smile.

Colton sighed heavily, feeling as weary as a father who has spent too much time with an active child. “Make me a promise,
s’il vous plaît.
The next time you feel compelled to wink at a comely woman, take pains to be certain her husband isn’t standing right beside her.”

“You’re no fun at all.” Oswald thrashed his way up the bank, then swatted his horse to send the animal further into the water. “Why shouldn’t we take our pleasure from these barbarians? It wasn’t as if I tried to take her on the spot.”

Colton glared at his friend. “You know Lord Richard wants us to maintain the peace here. You will make them hate us.”

“It matters not.” Oswald lowered himself to the grassy bank, then leaned back on his elbows and lifted his face to the warming rays of the sun. “The sun seems remarkably gentle in this land, have you noticed? When our Lord Richard rules here, I think I’ll build a small castle right on this spot.”

Colton drew his breath through his teeth in exasperation, then moved toward his saddle, where a generous loaf of Irish bread and a lump of cheese rested in a bag. His comrades, to a man, saw Ireland as a fertile land of happy fools. In their month at Philip’s rath at Athlone, they had twittered at stories of fairies and mocked the Irish belief in leprechauns and changelings. But while they had been quick to ridicule a culture as old as their own, they had not noticed the particular gifts of the Gaelic inhabitants—their delightfully different music, their skill with metalwork, their plump and handsome livestock.

And yes, their host had assured Colton one night after dinner, though the Gaelic Irish had no knights per se, Éireann was famous for its warriors. “Look here,” Philip said, pulling a book from a shelf in his hall, “a quote from the Greek geographer Strabo, who visited us in the first century.”

He ran his finger over a beautifully inscribed page that glimmered with traces of gold. “Here.” Philip’s finger stabbed the parchment, and his voice softened to a reverent whisper as he translated the words into English: “At any time or place, you will find the Gaels ready to face danger, even if they have nothing on their side but their own strength and courage.”

Philip lifted his gaze, his eyes burning like the clear, true blue that burns in the heart of a flame. Colton did not doubt that if he had drawn his sword at that moment, Philip would have struck him down or died in the attempt.

The memory brought a wry smile to his face. Let Oswald and the others dream of the estates and castles they would build on these river-banks. Those dreams would fade to the clear light of reality the first time they faced a Gael’s sharpened battle-ax.

He opened the bag on his saddle, withdrew the loaf of bread, broke it, and threw half to Oswald.

Oswald caught the bread with a saucy grin. “What about you, Colton? You could find some pretty Gaelic wench to warm your nights and a proper English lady to attend to your house—”

“I’m not making any plans about the morrow, ’tis too uncertain.” Colton eased himself down on the grass and bent his legs before him, his eyes following his horse. The animal had stepped further into the mud, seeking the clearer water that moved past the shoreline. The beast could swim, but the wooden saddle and a heavy blanket weighted him down. If the gelding got into deep water, he might lose his balance and be pulled under.

“Don’t know what you want?” Oswald crinkled his nose. “The great captain Colton has not made plans? Surely you intend to ask for Richard’s daughter in marriage, with some handsome Irish estate as her dowry.” He lowered his voice, as if the trees themselves might be listening. “I hear Lord Richard plans to take possession of this very soil before too long. Connacht is rightfully his—the Crown says so, and Richard will have it before he dies.”

Colton chewed a stubborn mouthful of the dark bread, then swallowed. “I want nothing of Richard’s but his favor.”

One of Oswald’s brows lifted in amused contempt. “Come now! We knights have nothing except that which our lord sees fit to bestow upon us, and neither of us is growing younger. In the space of three years, mayhap four, you will want to have a little house where you can train younger knights—”