The Emerald Isle (40 page)

“Across the river, in Meath,” Cahira gestured toward the east, “stand several of the ancient towers. They are nearly impregnable; we could hide there for many days, even if this de Lacy is not disposed to aid us.”

“I might be locked in a tower with you for days?” Colton pasted on an expression of mock horror as his hands tightened around Cahira’s waist. “Heaven help me, how I am to stand the torture?”

“Withstand the temptation, you mean.” Cahira brushed a gentle kiss across his lips. “And as much as I’d love to pass the morning sitting here on your lap, I’m thinking we should begin to move. My father might send out patrols, and if they find us at Carnfree, all will be lost.”

“I won’t let them take you from me.” Colton kissed the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat, then lifted his gaze into hers. “Before we go, there is one thing I must know. Are you sorry, Cahira O’Connor, for having wed me? I have taken you from a life of comfort and thrust you into danger and exile. I do not even know where we shall eat our next meal.”

With careful deliberateness she placed her hands against the sides of his head and bent until their faces were but a breath apart. “I am not sorry for one moment I have spent with you, Colton. And if, God forbid, we should die before dark, I would know that I have found more love in the space of one glorious day than some folks discover in a lifetime.”

M
urchadh’s heart was squeezed so tight he could barely draw breath to speak, but he forced the dreaded words out: “Sorcha, we know Cahira has left the rath. Tell us where she is.”

The maid stood in the center of the women’s chamber, her arms wrapped about herself. An aura of melancholy radiated from the girl’s pale features, and her soft brown eyes flickered with pain and despair. Yet she did not speak.

“Sorcha!” Felim’s voice held a note halfway between disbelief and pleading. “You are her maid—you are entrusted with her safety. Tell me why my daughter did not sleep in her bed last night!”

The maid flinched at the question, yet she only lowered her eyes in response, seeming to study the wooden floor. Una extended her hand toward her husband, warning him against pushing the girl too hard, then she stood from her chair and took a step toward Sorcha.

“We know you are loyal to our Cahira,” she whispered, her own voice emerging as a despair-crusted croak, rusty with swallowed frustration. “And I am not forgetting she is a stubborn lass. She has gone somewhere and told you not to tell us, I know it as surely as I know the sun will set tonight.”

The girl’s thin shoulders began to tremble; her head dipped in a barely perceptible nod.

“But Cahira does not know the depth of her risk, dear Sorcha. Her head is too full of daydreams and fancy to know about the dangers
of matters between lords and kings. And if she is caught up in some mischief where she might be ill-used by the Normans, I fear for her.”

The girl’s jaw trembled in a dry, choked spasm, but she neither wept nor spoke.

“Enough!” His patience at an end, Felim slammed his fist against the wall, then nodded at Murchadh, who stood at his side. “Fetch a whip from the stable. If the girl will not speak, I’ll beat the truth from her.”

Murchadh’s thoughts roiled with disbelief. “Felim, you cannot mean to do this. The girl is only obeying her mistress.”

“The girl forgets she must obey her king!”

“But you cannot be thinking of beating her like a common animal! She’s a faithful servant, trusted by your own daughter—”

“By heaven, Murchadh, if you persist in this folly you shall administer the whipping yourself!”

“No!” Sorcha’s eyes welled with hurt, her tears spilling over cheeks as pale as parchment. “Don’t force him to hurt me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Then tell us where Cahira is.” Una walked forward and drew the sobbing girl into her arms, pulling the maid’s heavy hair from her eyes as she soothed her. “Speak, Sorcha, and no harm will come to you.”

Sorcha wept aloud, rocking back and forth in Una’s arms, then she lifted her head and peered woefully at Murchadh through tear-clogged lashes. He gazed at her, despairing, until she began to speak. “She has gone to marry the Norman knight. She is in love with him and cannot be dissuaded.”

“Impossible!” Felim roared. “No Irish priest would marry her without my consent.”

The maid shook her head, her eyes large and fierce with pain. “The knight…was going to abduct Lorcan. Cahira was certain the brehon would agree to marry them.”

Utter stillness reigned in the chamber; even the hooting of the wind seemed to hush in a conspiracy of silence. Murchadh closed
his eyes, feeling as though the room swirled around him as he absorbed the terrible news.

“Murchadh! Felim!” The sound of pounding footsteps and Rian’s voice broke the tension, then the young man stalked into the chamber, his face contorted in a fearful grimace.

Felim waved the young man away. “This is not a good time for bad news, Rian. We have just heard more than we can bear.”

Rian lifted his chin, boldly met his king’s gaze, and spoke in a trembling voice. “This cannot wait. Peadar stands in the courtyard with news—Lorcan has been most foully murdered by a Norman knight!”

A wave of grayness passed over Murchadh, a kind of dark premonition. Cahira had gone to marry a knight—a knight who was going to abduct the brehon—and Lorcan had been murdered? How could this be? The imp was not particularly known for good sense, but Murchadh would have sworn that Colton was a man of honor.

Felim’s brows drew together in an agonized expression, then he fixed a grim look to his face. When he spoke, his voice simmered with barely checked fury. “Murchadh, call for my men. Prepare the horses. We will ride at once.”

Murchadh stiffened at something he heard in the king’s voice, something sharp and cold, like words torn by the blade of a dagger.

Una heard it, too. “Felim, remember! She is our daughter!”

“I shall not be forgetting that, woman!”

Sorcha broke into fresh sobs as Felim stormed out of the chamber, and Una automatically drew the girl into her arms again. “Whist, now, stop your crying,” she murmured, stroking the maid’s back. She lifted her gaze and met Murchadh’s. “How could I have so misread my own daughter? Is it possible that the light in her eye of late sprang from love for a cursed
Norman?
”

“She begged me not to tell—she made me swear I wouldn’t tell,” Sorcha babbled, wailing in the reckless abandon of the newly confessed. “But she loves this man, and she said she would marry him no matter what anyone said or did to stop her.”

“God, grant me wisdom,” Murchadh prayed, moving out the doorway. “Help us bring Cahira home.”

Oswald swung out of his saddle, then stumped toward the thatched-roof building that Philip dared to call “the great hall.” Compared to the magnificent stone castles of Normandy and England, the building was neither great nor a proper hall, but Richard seemed content to headquarter there. Oswald could not wait until they could leave this mud hut and take possession of the land. Then they’d show these backward Irish what a proper castle should look like.

The guards at the door, a pair of Irish lads who looked pitifully underdressed in their short tunics, sandals, and cloaks, nodded grimly as Oswald approached. The Gaels had observed the knights for nearly two months, yet they did little to imitate them. The guards still kept watch with simple spears and axes at hand; the horsemen still rode bareback on steeds as slender and delicate as porcelain china.

Simpletons. They don’t even have the sense to recognize superior warriors when they see them.

The girl was to blame for the guards’ indifference, of course. Ever since that blasted tournament when the brazen hussy had shorn her hair and pulled on men’s clothing, the Irish warriors had regarded the Normans with bored apathy. But she would soon learn to respect Norman strength.

“I am looking for my master, Lord Richard de Burgo.” Oswald directed his comments to the tallest man on guard. “Is he within?”

“Aye.” The word slipped from a mouth that curled as if on the edge of laughter.

“Then let me pass.” Oswald did not wait to hear the reply, but stepped between the two men and entered the gloomy chamber beyond. A pair of chickens clucked in the corner; a pair of serving women bent and cackled over the wide fireplace that filled the room with heat. But there, in the far corner, Oswald saw his lord sitting before a board and game pieces. His master was teaching the Irish barbarian how to play chess.

Oswald crossed the room in long strides, then dropped to one knee before Richard. His master looked up, distracted, then smiled when he recognized the face. “Oswald. How fares the land of Connacht?”

Oswald took a deep breath, flashed a glance at his Irish host, then bowed his head before his master. “Truth to tell, my lord, I have important news. I have just ridden in from Carnfree.”

Philip’s brow wrinkled, and something moved in his eyes. “I know Carnfree. ’Tis a most holy place to my people, the altar where kings are consecrated and crowned.”

“Indeed?” Richard’s brows rose, graceful wings of scorn. He dropped a pawn onto the chessboard, then folded his hands, and gave Oswald his full attention. Drawing a deep breath, Richard lowered his voice and spoke in carefully modulated French: “Perhaps you should explain what drew you to this holy place. Unless you’re planning on declaring yourself king of Connacht, I cannot fathom what you were doing there.”

Answering in French as well, Oswald dropped his gaze in a show of humility. “I would never think of myself as king, but I cannot speak for another of your men, my lord. Colton has proceeded with his plan. Felim’s daughter is with him now. Time is of the essence, for I believe they are planning to escape to Walter de Lacy’s province of Meath.”

Richard cocked his head to one side, as far as his multiple chins allowed. A faint glint of humor filled his eyes. “Let me understand you. Felim’s daughter has run away and married my captain?”

“I witnessed the ceremony myself.” Oswald paused for effect, then drew a deep, exasperated breath. “The brehon who performed the ceremony vowed he would convince the Irish king to accept the marriage.”

The amused look suddenly left Richard’s eyes. “Does this brehon still live?”

“No, my lord. He lies somewhere on the road between Carnfree and Rathcroghan. Felim’s warriors will find him soon enough.”

“Finally,” Richard whispered, his hand gripping a marble chess piece so tightly that his knuckles whitened, “the cursed Irish king will venture out of his fortress! He will ride out on a reckless tide of anger, and we shall be waiting for him.”

Oswald remained silent for a moment, allowing his master to enjoy his thought, then he lifted a hand. “Sir, what of Colton and the girl?”

Richard frowned. “What do you mean? The girl will mean nothing once Felim is destroyed.” He lifted his head and idly rubbed the fur at his collar. “We should probably lay a trap for him at that ridge of hills just outside Athlone.”

Oswald lifted a brow. “Forgive my intrusion, but I think I should point out something about your captain. Though he appears to be one of your most loyal men, apparently he has been asking questions of the Irish—wanting to know about their way of electing kings, their approach to marriage, and so on. He has learned, for instance, that anyone can become king with the consent of those he governs. If a man lays claim to the throne through marriage to a royal daughter, and if the marriage itself took place at the holy place of Carnfree…”

A deep red patch appeared over Richard’s rounded cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him hard on both cheeks. As Oswald waited, his master drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the passion that made him tremble. Philip lifted a brow, but Richard did not look toward his host. He kept his eyes fixed sternly upon Oswald.

When he spoke, the words came out hoarse, as if forced through a straining throat. “You think Colton means to install
himself
as a king of Connacht? Before I can even press my claim? Can greed and ambition have such a grip upon his heart that he would forget his oath of allegiance to me?”