The Emerald Isle (16 page)

The room was chilly in the weepy gray light, and all the other sleepers—Sorcha, the kitchen maids, and Brigit, her mother’s maid—lay curled up like cats beneath their covers. The window glowed softly with the advent of morning, and through a pinhole crack a single sunbeam shone bright enough to make Cahira squint when her eyes met it.

The sound of hooves on the gravel outside snapped her back to reality. The tournament! At this moment Murchadh was probably preparing their horses, and soon they would be on their way to Athlone.

She swung her legs off her low bed, then pulled her blanket around her shoulders. Taking advantage of the silence, she padded to the trunk in the corner of the room and opened it. She cringed when the heavy wooden lid thudded against the wall, but none of the others stirred.

Cahira knelt and quickly rummaged through the stacks of clothing—gowns, aprons, workday caps, and sleeves. Finally, at the bottom of the trunk she found some castoff garments her father had worn before the dignity of kingship required him to dress in finer tunics. She picked up one
léine
, a traditional linen tunic, and fitted it against
her shoulders. The shapeless blue garment fell to her knees, the perfect length for a young Irish archer.

She dropped the tunic to the floor, then pulled out garters, a pair of woolen hose, and a woven belt. Sitting back on her heels, she mentally ticked off the garments she would need. All she lacked was headgear, and she absolutely had to cover her head. Not many Irishmen, not even the roughest, wore their hair in a waist-length braid.

Seeking a cap large enough to cover a coiled braid, she riffled through the trunk again, then flattened herself on the floor to peek under the sleeping girls’ beds. A gray mouse stared at her with bright eyes, then turned and darted through a hole in the wall. Cahira made a face and sat up. She’d have to take one of the stable boys’ caps when she went to the barn. This room had nothing to offer but dainty woolen hats and wimples.

She rolled the garments into a ball, laid it on the bed, and reached for the gown she had worn the day before. The dress was still damp from the river and smelled slightly sour, but it certainly would not get any cleaner on the journey to Athlone. The laundress could have it after they had returned from the day’s business.

She slipped the gown over her chemise, then took a quick glance in the looking glass. Her face seemed narrow and pale in the gray light, and again she wondered why her father often praised her beauty. His compliments probably sprang from his increasingly urgent desire to find her a husband.

She stood in the corner of the room and picked up a brush. With one hand holding the looking glass, she ran the bristles over the crown of her head, just enough to smooth the flame-colored frizz that haloed her face. Murchadh had never called her beautiful, for he always spoke the truth. And in truth, the face that stared back at her now was an imp’s face. Cahira’s mother had tried to impress the marks of education and gentility upon her daughter, but the mask of refinement rarely concealed the sprite who had never asked to be a king’s daughter.

Sighing, she laid the mirror on the table and glanced at Sorcha’s
sleeping figure. While her fingers automatically subdivided the heavy mass of her hair, she reviewed the plan she and Sorcha had devised during the night. The girls would attend prayers at her mother’s knee as they did every morning, then they would hie themselves out to the stable to meet Murchadh.

Before going upstairs to bed last night, she caught Murchadh’s eye and saw his chin dip in a barely discernable nod—
all is well.
Cahira took a deep breath as a dozen different emotions collided in her heart. Her father had given permission for them to visit Athlone—probably hoping Cahira would pick up a suitor among the men at Philip’s rath—and their daring plan would proceed.

An hour later she knelt before the wooden cross in the small room that served as the family’s chapel and bowed her head as her father began the morning prayer. As his rich baritone filled the room, she clasped her hands and leaned on the altar railing, then lifted her gaze in a disobedient glance. A slight crease marred her mother’s smooth forehead, and Cahira knew she worried about old Brian, who was still missing. Cahira closed her eyes and lifted her heart in a silent prayer that Brian would be soon and safely returned.

Her father’s voice, quiet and reverent, echoed in the chapel. “One thing I have asked of the Lord, this is what I seek: That I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life; to behold the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple. Who is it that you seek?”

Cahira was so caught up in her thoughts that she nearly forgot to make the proper response: “We seek the Lord our God.” “Do you seek him with all your heart?”

She pitched her voice so that it blended perfectly with her mother’s. “Amen. Lord, have mercy.”

“Do you seek him with all your soul?”

“Amen. Lord, have mercy.”

“Do you seek him with all your mind?”

“Amen. Lord have mercy.”

“Do you seek him with all your strength?”

Yes
, Cahira thought, even as her lips replied, “Amen. Christ, have mercy.”
Give me strength today to shoot well, to show these Normans we are not ignorant savages or ignoble peasants. The fierce blood of the Gaels flows in our veins, and we are free
.

She pressed her hands more tightly together in an attempt to stop the spasmodic trembling that rose from within her. In less than an hour, she, Sorcha, and Murchadh would be on the road to Athlone, where Cahira would don the most
audacious
disguise of her life. Sure, and wasn’t their plan purely brazen? In all the winding length of her life she had never met another woman who would even consider entering a men’s contest, nor had she met another man who would have allowed her to do so.

A chiding voice rose in her mind, whispering that a king’s daughter belonged within her father’s walls, behind the guards who had sworn to protect her. But Cahira had never found the role of royal daughter a comfortable fit, and in assigning her care to Murchadh, her father had only strengthened her obstinate heart, for the gruff old warrior had never been able to refuse her anything.

“May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you, wherever he may send you.” The king’s voice gentled as he concluded the morning prayer, and Cahira knew he was thinking of the journey she would take today. She opened her eyes and caught her father’s gaze as he concluded the morning office. “May he guide you through the wilderness, protect you through the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you. May he bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.”

“Amen,” Cahira echoed, returning her father’s smile.

They departed immediately after breakfast. Cahira was soon grateful for Murchadh’s company, for he engaged Sorcha in conversation, thus preventing the maid from trying to divert Cahira from her purposed course of action. Though it would have been proper for Murchadh to ride next to Cahira, nothing moved on the trail ahead. So with a great show of nonchalance, Cahira invited Sorcha to ride next to
Murchadh. She followed behind them like a servant, much happier without Murchadh at her elbow. She wanted time to think, to consider repercussions of her victory or loss to the Normans.

If she lost the archery competition, no one need know that Felim O’Connor’s daughter had participated as a nameless Irish archer. But if she won, how delightful it would be to rip off her cap and allow her braid to tumble down her back! She would proclaim her identity, and her kinsman Philip would lift a toast in her honor. And, having been defeated by a woman, the Normans would slink back to whatever castle they had recently vacated.

Cahira sighed in satisfaction, warmed as much by the colors of late autumn as by the prospect of a bloodless victory. She dropped her horse’s reins and let the animal follow the others, her own thoughts wandering to the memory of the men she had spied upon at the river. The one fellow was an overconfident fool, of that she was certain, but the other had proven himself polite and tactfully incurious.

Or had he? In that moment when their eyes met she had been certain he saw her, but perhaps her heightened senses had fooled her into imagining his notice. With all she had heard about demanding Norman knights, it was difficult to believe that any one of them could have seen her and left her safely alone.

The man couldn’t be the gentleman she supposed then. Her heart had been gripped with the thrill of the unknown, her eyes bedazzled by his striking good looks and the glint of his sword. He had been staring at his reflection, perhaps, but he could not have seen her.

Today she could not afford to be distracted by romantic notions. The Normans were a vicious lot, and she would take pleasure in humiliating them.

Philip’s rath at Athlone was not as impressive as Rathcroghan, but Cahira felt her pulse quicken when the walled embankments rose into view. She leaned forward and urged her horse into a slow trot, aware that Murchadh had straightened in his saddle and done the same. In the blink of an eye he transformed himself from a relaxed man out
on a pleasant ride to captain of the king’s guard and guardian of the king’s only daughter.

Sorcha held her horse in check until Cahira rode beside her, then she cast her mistress a questioning look. “I haven’t changed me mind, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Cahira said in a voice loud enough for Murchadh to hear. “Once we are inside, why don’t you see if you can find us something to drink. I will find Philip and convey my father’s greetings.”

“I’ll be staying with you,” Murchadh called over his shoulder. “The place is crawling with strangers; see how many horses are in the field! You will remain with me until I have stabled our beasts.”

Cahira lifted her chin, determined to show him how unconcerned she was. “I am not a child, Murchadh, that you should oversee my every move. I am perfectly capable of greeting a kinsman. Besides—I have my dagger with me.”

“Aye, you do.” Murchadh twisted on his horse and slowed until the two girls caught up, then he gave Cahira a one-sided smile. “And that is why I say I should remain with you. Either you wait for me, or you promise not to flash your blade at any lad who happens to waggle his brows in your direction.”

“No one’s going to waggle at me.” Cahira’s lips puckered with annoyance. “All right then. I promise not to pull out the dagger unless I have need.”

“Real
need, mind you. Which means you can’t be challenging Philip’s sons to a tossing contest.”

“Really, Murchadh.” Cahira lifted her brows in pretend horror. “Can you be thinking I would do such a thing? ’Twould be rude.” She flashed him a slight smile of defiance. “Besides, Philip’s sons couldn’t beat me if they tried.”

Murchadh lifted his hand in supplication and looked to the sky. “Heaven, hear her!”

“I’ll help you stable the horses, Murchadh,” Sorcha offered, giving Cahira a quick glance. “If you could use the help.”

Cahira resisted the urge to laugh aloud. Her love-struck maid
knew nothing about horses, but it was obvious she’d do anything to spend time with a certain warrior. “And would you be leaving me all alone then?” She caught Sorcha’s eye and winked. “Leave me then, Sorcha, but be sure to find me soon. I’ll be needing your help.”

A betraying blush brightened the girl’s face, but Murchadh took no note of it. “You’ll have to change into your disguise as soon as they call for the archers.” He lowered his voice to a deeper tone. “If you can find a quiet corner, I’ll stand guard while the maid helps you dress.”

Cahira nodded and absently bent to pat her horse’s neck. The animal stopped, for they had reached the fields where the horses were penned. She slipped from the animal’s bare back, then smoothed the fabric of her skirt with one hand while she held the reins with the other.

“Thank you, Murchadh,” she said, leading her mount to him. “And be quick with the horses, I beg you.”

His eyes twinkled with mischief and a hint of concern. “Are you feeling a little nervous then?”

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her maid. “Sorcha, if you can tear yourself away from Murchadh, I could use a drink of water.”