The Emerald Isle (39 page)

The horse whickered and shook his head, setting the bit to jangling in his mouth. “Patience,” Oswald murmured, slowly turning the beast, “easy now.”

He made a clucking sound with his tongue and started the horse off again at a quick pace. With a flick of his hand he guided the animal to the soft earth beside the hardened trail, effectively muffling the sound of the stallion’s hooves. The animal broke into a canter, eating up the distance as smoothly as a shadow. Within a few moments the mound of Carnfree passed at Oswald’s right hand; within a few moments more he spied the white robes of the men he sought. He
immediately pulled his mount to a halt, leaning forward to pat the skittish stallion on the neck as the animal pranced forward.

The brehon and his student were walking in silence, but the younger man seemed to be searching the open fields, presumably seeking shelter for the night. The brehon’s head did not move, but remained forward, not stirring even when Oswald’s horse blew gustily and nodded its great head in impatience.

The student turned, however, and tugged on his master’s sleeve. Recognizing danger, Oswald slipped from his mount and drew his sword.

“So,” the brehon called, his voice juicy with contempt as he turned slowly, “this is how you plan to begin the story? Do you not know, Sir Knight, that a tale that begins with blood must also end with blood?”

“Master, do you think he intends—?” The student’s voice braked to a halt as his features filled with a sudden shock of sick realization.

“His intent is obvious, Peadar. If I were you, I would leave immediately.”

“No!” Oswald lunged for the younger man, his sword singing as it rent the empty air, but the student turned and dove into a hedge, then scrambled out the other side and sprinted toward the dark horizon.

The brehon’s hand closed like an iron vise around Oswald’s arm. “Let him go. He cannot hurt your plan. He might even help you.”

Oswald’s lips thinned with irritation as he watched the retreating figure. “What do you know about anything, old man?”

Shadows rippled over the brehon like water over a sunken rock. “I know you and your lord want to instigate war with Felim O’Connor. I know you are thinking that if I do not persuade Felim to approve his daughter’s marriage, the king of Connacht will ride to Athlone and impulsively attack the Normans there. But they will be ready for him, aye?”

Oswald gave the brehon a hostile glare. “Sometimes a man can be too wise for his own good.”

A flicker of a smile rose at the edges of the old man’s mouth, then died out. “Aye. Sometimes he can.”

They stared at each other across a sudden ringing silence. Oswald felt his hand grow clammy, and he gripped his sword more tightly. It would be easier to do this if he were angry or on the receiving end of some insult.

“I’m not afraid,” the brehon said, a bright mockery invading his stare. “I have lived a full life and am ready to meet my Savior. But I feel I must ask you, Sir Knight, to reconsider this act. Not for my soul’s sake, but for your own. Will you be ready to stand before God with an innocent man’s blood on your conscience?”

Oswald stepped back, torn by conflicting emotions.

“If the love you bear your friend Colton is real, think yet again. You think you know him, but a man in love is not as predictable as you might believe. He will fight to defend Cahira. He may even turn against you.”

There was a blank instant when Oswald’s head had swarmed with words, then a burst of anger tore through him at the sound of Colton’s name. “You talk too much!” In a surge of killing anger, he lifted his sword and brought it down, the blade slicing through neck and shoulder and chest until it caught somewhere in the vicinity of the brehon’s rib cage. The old man said nothing, but his eyes widened slightly at the first bite of the blade, then he swayed on his feet and put out a hand as Oswald wrenched the sword free in a desperate tug.

Oswald swallowed, forcing down the sudden lurch of his stomach. The brehon took one unsteady step forward, then fell to his knees, gouts of blood pumping from his throat and flowing over his white robe. The man opened his mouth as if he would speak again, then fell forward onto the earth, his pale hand reaching over the dirt toward Oswald.

Oswald stepped back and sheathed his sword, shuddering as the murderous passion left him. Fury had its own intoxication, but the black and dizzy vortex of aftershock was overpowering.

He walked to his horse, placed his foot in the long stirrup, and
struggled to swing himself into the saddle. The brehon’s body lay in the road like a discarded toy, blood shining wet and black in the moonlight. Gathering his reins, Oswald stared down at the road. Should he hide the corpse? He hadn’t hidden the carcasses of the slaughtered cattle, intending them for a warning. Well, this would be a warning too.

Turning his horse toward Carnfree, he pursed his lips and forced himself to whistle one of the Gaelic dance tunes the harpers played every night at Athlone.

A
drift in a sea of fragmented dreams, Colton swam toward wake-fulness, keenly aware that his God-ordained place in the universe had changed. Before last night he had been born and bred to battle, a man of the sword, of chivalry, and of loyalty to a sworn master. But after taking his vows to Cahira, he had added a more pressing duty. He could no more cast off his heritage or his loyalty to Richard than he could rid himself of his shadow, but he could be true to his bride no matter what the cost. He had loved her spirit from the moment he saw her lift her chin in defiance of Richard’s order to shoot toward the old man. He had come to love her intellect and her womanhood as she opened herself like a gently unfolding blossom. And last night, when he held her in his arms and loved her as a husband, his blood had soared with the conviction that he would kill to defend her, would die to preserve her honor. From the beginning of time, God had made her for him, and Colton rejoiced to find the piece of himself that had been missing for far too long.

Safe and snug inside one of the stone huts, he opened his eyes as his ears filled with birdsong. Cahira lay stretched out on his mantle, silky strands of red hair draped across her dreaming face, the pale white streak glowing in the slanted sunlight from the narrow window.

Propping his head on his arm, he lifted himself and studied her. By heaven, she was a treasure! As elemental and primitive as this green
and pungent land, imbued with a stunning, vibrant beauty that could not be found in the pale-faced damsels of English and French courts.

A gust of wind blew through the chinks in the stones, lifting the hair on Colton’s arm. When he reached out and tugged on Cahira’s cloak to cover her bare shoulder, a smile flickered over her face.

Was she awake? Her eyes did not open, but surely women did not smile when they slept…unless they dreamed of pleasant things. He had not been in a room with a sleeping woman since leaving his childhood, for he had spent his youth and manhood amongst men. Perhaps women were a race apart.

He lowered his head, wondering if he should be so bold as to kiss his new bride to wakefulness, then froze at the sound of a footstep on the gravel outside. Oswald had promised to return at an early hour to see if Colton wanted to send any message to Athlone. Eventually Lord Richard would have to be told about this hastily arranged marriage, but the disclosure would have to be made with great discretion and tact. Richard had been mightily offended by the Irish king’s refusal to meet with him, but perhaps he would be encouraged by the news that Felim’s daughter, at least, had proved herself open to the idea of accepting Normans…and loving one.

Reluctantly tearing himself away from his bride, Colton thrust his head and arms through the woven tunic he wore under his mail, then walked to the door and opened it. Wearing an indulgent smile, Oswald leaned against another of the stone huts. “How fares the groom?”

“Well enough.” Colton couldn’t keep a smile from his own face. Though for years he had written love songs as part of his chivalric training, the concept was but a moon-cast shadow compared to the reality of resting in his beloved’s arms. “Did you pass a good night? I thought you might ride back to Athlone.”

“I didn’t want to arouse suspicion by passing the night guards without you,” Oswald answered, his brows drawing downward in a frown. “And my night was tolerable, though nowhere near as pleasant as yours.”

“Ah—well.” Colton felt almost embarrassed at the tingle of happiness running through him. Oswald must think him a sentimental fool. “I’ve thought about it, and the brehon’s plan is a good one. Cahira and I will go into Meath while Lorcan counsels her father. ’Twill be very helpful if you can disguise my absence for a few days. But if Lord Richard notices that I am missing, give him the truth, but gently.” Colton forced his lips to curve in a still, calm smile. “Assure him that all is well, and that Felim o’ the Connors will soon have a new reason to consider establishing a peace. We will place our faith in God and the brehon.”

Oswald’s eyes gleamed like glassy volcanic rock beneath his helmet. “I can cover for you as long as a week. There’s no need for you to rush away. After all, you are traveling with a woman.”

“I appreciate your consideration, but Cahira is no fragile flower.” Colton reached for his friend’s hand and clasped it warmly. “Thank you. Someday I will return the favor.”

Oswald jerked his head in a brief nod. “I doubt it will be the same favor. I can’t see myself marrying an Irish wench.”

“Neither could I, until last week.” Colton released Oswald’s hand, then smiled. “’Tis passing strange, how God can change our plans.”

Cahira woke to the sound of birds and the clatter of hooves upon gravel. Opening her eyes, she saw that she was alone in the hut. She rose, slipped quickly into her gown and mantle, and stepped out into the sunshine.

A few feet away, Oswald sat upon his horse and Colton stood by his side, speaking to him in a quiet voice. A moment later Oswald picked up the reins, and Colton swatted the big stallion’s flank. Away went the horse and rider.

Cahira felt her heart turn over when Colton turned and smiled at her. Her husband! She would have preferred waking in his arms, but it was also nice to awaken and find him waiting for her.

She flew over the stones and flung herself into his arms, her mouth hungrily seeking his.

“Well,” Colton whispered when they finally parted, “if that is the greeting I shall receive every morning, I shall take pains to keep you with me always.”

“I would go with you always,” Cahira answered, meaning every word. “If you must travel with Lord Richard to England, or Normandy, or Paris, I will go with you. I will sleep in the rain with you, and make my home among the cliffs—”

“How you talk.” Colton slipped down to sit on a rock, then pulled her firmly onto his lap. “I know you would travel with me, and moreover, I know you could. But I want to protect you, Cahira, to set you in a safe place where we shall be free to make a home and a family. Lord Richard must be consulted, for he is my master, but I am confident he will allow me to settle on his estate in Limerick. And if all goes well with our plan to unite my master and your father, mayhap we can one day settle on an estate in Connacht.” His eyes brimmed with tenderness. “I would not separate a princess from her people.”

“I have told you,” Cahira lowered her forehead until it gently grazed his, “I care nothing about being a king’s daughter. I care only for you, Colton. If our marriage can help bring peace to your people and mine, then I am happy, but if we must live in Meath, or in Limerick, or even in Normandy, I am content as long as I am with you.”

“You are a wonder,” he murmured, nestling against her. Cahira shivered at the heady sensation of his lips against her neck. “But as sweet as this place is, now we must think of the future.” He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Oswald will disguise my absence at Athlone, and Lorcan will speak peaceably to your father, but we will not have many days without interference. We must make our way to Meath.”

Cahira nodded, sobered by the thought of discovery, while Colton turned toward the east, his face shining in the light of the rising sun. “Walter de Lacy rules that province. While he and Lord Richard are civil to one another, they are not close. If we beg de Lacy for sanctuary until our people come to terms, I see no reason for him to refuse our petition.”