The Emerald Isle (55 page)

Colton felt himself shrivel at her confident expression. “Richard saw to it that I could never help your father. I cannot lift a sword; I cannot even manage a catapult.”

“He cares nothing for those things.” Turning his head, Cahira buried her hands in his thick hair and gazed up at him. “Don’t you understand, you dote? ’Tis your spirit he values, and your knowledge. And you are strong, Colton, stronger than the men who come with Richard, because you will be fighting for the land and the people you love. You will stir our warriors to defend themselves. You will teach us the secrets of Norman warfare. And if God is good, we shall defend ourselves honorably.”

Colton closed his eyes, seeing a mental image of his life spread out in a line, its humble beginning in Normandy, and its end on a green field somewhere in Connacht. He would breathe his last with the men of Éireann, these brave, friendly, free souls who would rather die than work their own soil for a foreign master.

His mind kept turning to a song he’d heard Murchadh singing at dinner:

He would die, as all men did, but his life might not be meaningless. He would leave behind a child, a blend of Ireland’s bravery
and Normandy’s pride. He would leave a wealth of memories with Cahira, who would guard them with her life and her own considerable courage.

He lowered his head, then pressed his left hand to the burgeoning weight that swelled beneath the fabric of her gown. “Be sure the child survives,” he said, knowing she understood completely. “No matter what happens, you and the child must be safely away from the trouble.”

“Nothing will happen,” she whispered, pulling his head down to her shoulder. She held him there like a mother comforting a child, and both of them knew she lied.

The bitter cold of February sharpened in the windy days of March, then melted into April’s rains and gilded sunsets. As Colton struggled to train the warriors of Rathcroghan in the techniques of war, he kept one eye on the southwestern horizon, watching for any sign of smoke or the dust of an approaching army. But his eye saw only emerald ribbons of foliage and the bright patchwork of ripening fields.

He wasn’t sure which was most exasperating—waiting on Richard, waiting on the coming child, or waiting for his Irish warriors to settle down and get serious about the art of war. The men of Rathcroghan preferred the Irish battle-ax to the heavy broadsword, despite Colton’s contention that a man could be run through with a sword while he stopped to lift and lower an ax. On the pretext of strengthening his left hand and arm, Colton engaged Murchadh and several of the others in mock duels, but the Irish had little interest in pretend fighting. Their natural talents, Colton decided, leaned more toward dreaming, talking, and arguing than fighting, training, or plotting. A single well-scored point in a duel was reason enough for breaking into riotous celebration, and the telling of a cook’s interesting dream would find a more rapt audience than Colton’s lesson on dueling techniques.

Rumors trickled down upon Rathcroghan like the gentle rains that watered the fields nearly every morning. Dozens of men were
assembling at Richard’s castle in Limerick, the traveling poets reported, some of whom spoke nothing but French. The soldiers were giants, armed with pikes and broadswords so heavy that a man needed two strong arms to lift them.

The Irish laughed at the rumors and kept an eye on their greening fields. When Colton insisted that the stories might be true, Felim asked, “So what would you have us do, lad? The cattle must be fed, and furrows plowed. Our men don’t lack for bravery, but there isn’t time enough to sit around and worry.”

As the month of June waxed and waned, Colton felt his own wariness fade. Cahira’s time was imminent, and her moods and twinges were far more fascinating than the stories swirling about the countryside. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the southwestern sky every morning and night. If Richard were to attempt an invasion, it would be likely to come in temperate weather.

Cahira’s time of travail began on the twenty-second day of June. Sorcha, breathless and red-faced, brought the news to the men in the king’s hall, and Murchadh, Colton, and Felim instantly retreated to the chapel. The king and the burly warrior completed their heartfelt prayers and stood to depart, but Colton lingered by the altar, caught up in a desperate need to do something useful while his wife struggled in childbirth. She had borne so much for him… Though it was probably unseemly for a man, Colton quietly told God he would gladly bear the pain of childbirth for her, if such a thing were allowed.

He was still kneeling in the chapel two hours later when Murchadh entered, his face ashen. “Colton, you are needed now.” His voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, but the effect was as great as if he had shouted in Colton’s ear.

Colton whirled. “Has something happened to Cahira?”

“No.” Fear radiated from the older man, and the somber look on the warrior’s face sent a thrill of alarm shooting through Colton’s middle. “A scout has raised the alarm. An army is approaching from Athlone.”

Colton closed his eyes as the hair on the back of his neck rose with premonition.
Richard.
Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “How many?”

“More than we’ve ever seen. The scout says the hills are crawling with them.”

Colton silently held up his hand, then turned again to the altar.
God, this is the time
, he prayed, lifting his eyes to the cross mounted on the wall.
You have brought me to this place and saved me for this day. You have given me a wife and a child and a people…and I return them all to you. Do with us—do with me—as you will.

Rising to his feet, he silently followed Murchadh from the chapel.

Through a veil of weariness and pain, Cahira saw Colton leaning over her bed. “What are you doing here?” Despite her exhaustion, a smile crept to her face. “Come to look at your son, have you now?”

“I’ve seen him. He’s beautiful.” Colton sank to the edge of the bed and reached for her hand, then gripped it tightly in his own. “We have to talk, my love.”

Cahira grimaced as she turned and shifted her weight. Portions of her skin burned and her muscles ached, but the pain was nothing compared to the joy of enfolding her son in her arms.

Aedh. Named for another king of Connacht.

“Can we talk later?” Her lids slipped down over her eyes. “I’m tired. I don’t know what you’re knowing about childbirth, Colton, but ’tis no easy thing I’ve done here today.”

“Cahira.” Colton clung to her hand. “You must take the baby away at once.”

His voice was a bolt of energy, conveying a force of will that demanded her response. She opened her eyes and stared at her husband, stunned…and yet not surprised. He had said all along that Richard would come again when the weather improved.

She lifted her head to give emphasis to her words. “I haven’t the strength. The birth was more difficult than I expected.”

“You can rest later, Cahira, after you’re safely away. Swear to me that you’ll take the baby and go, right now. Richard is coming.”

Cahira leaned back and read her destiny in his somber eyes. The time had come to fight, just as Colton had predicted, and all of her dreams vanished in the light of the looming battle. What did her dreams matter when her people’s fate hung in the balance?

The next few hours would decide the future of Connacht. Since Colton had been right about Richard’s return, he would most likely be right about the outcome of the battle as well. Richard would not have returned without an invincible army.

“What will happen when he comes?” Her voice faded as she considered the inevitable. “Will he have my parents killed?”

For a moment Colton studied her intently, then his vivid brown eyes filled with a distant stillness. “He will doubtless burn this place and anyone in it, for it is the king’s house and a symbol of the past,” he said, his voice flat. “But after his victory, Richard will only destroy those who threaten him. If your father survives the battle, ’tis likely Richard will let him live, if only to curry favor with the people.” His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Richard will need the people to till the land and care for his cattle.”

Cahira nodded, digesting this answer, then forced another, more crucial question across her lips. “Will he see our son as a threat?”

Colton bent over her, his hand smoothing her hair. “If your father takes a vow of fealty, ’tis almost certain his heirs will swear allegiance to Richard as well.” His voice was rough, torn by despair and longing. “The boy will be safe, Cahira—as long as he and your father survive this day.”

“Then I swear the child will live.” Cahira grasped his hand and gazed steadily into his eyes. “You have my oath on it.”

He pressed his lips to her damp forehead, then rested his cheek against hers. “Good-bye, my love.” His voice, like her nerves, was in shreds. “Remember this—as life is eternal, love is immortal. Death is only a horizon, and a horizon only the limit of our sight. I will see you again.”

He squeezed her hand one final time, pressed another kiss to her lips, then turned to join the battle.

Staring at the space he had just occupied, Cahira reached out with trembling fingers and traced his image in the dust motes shifting in the slanting sun’s rays. The Normans were coming, and her husband, armed only with a sword in his left hand, was determined to resist every step of their advance. They might strike him down with her father and many of her friends, but they would
not
harm her innocent baby.

“Sorcha!” Gathering all her strength, Cahira pushed herself up on one elbow and waited until the maid crept into the room, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping. “Take my child, swaddle him in warm blankets, and go. I want you to ride north toward the kingdom of Tir Conaill. Do not stop, and do not look back.”

Sorcha crossed herself, nodded a scared-rabbit kind of assent, and bent to pick up the baby. “One more thing,” Cahira murmured, reaching toward the child. “Take Murchadh with you. If my father objects, tell him it is for his grandson’s benefit. The two of you should go at once, and guard my son with your life. In him flows the royal O’Connor blood. If you do not reach safety, he will be the last.”

Sorcha scooped the baby into her arms, then lowered him to Cahira’s side long enough for her to press her lips to the child’s wrinkled brow. He was a beautiful boy, perfectly formed and pink, with swirls of dark hair that would one day be as thick and lustrous as Colton’s.

Cahira bit her lip, her anguish nearly overcoming her control. Why had God allowed her and this innocent one to be caught up in this inescapable tragedy? If her body were not so weak and exhausted, she’d at least
feel
in charge of her destiny, but there was nothing she could do here but wait for the enemy.

She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and trailed her fingers over the baby’s cheek. If she were a man, she’d be on the battlefield between her father and husband, fighting for Éireann and freedom. But because she was a woman, she lay here instead, weakened by pain and fatigue, bloodied by the honor of bringing a new
life into the world. She reveled in the joy of it, but she could not dismiss her regrets.

“I pray God,” she whispered, resting her cupped palm against the baby’s round head, “that those who come after us will shine like the stars, yet have the courage to break free from their foreordained courses and restore right in this murderous world.”

Sorcha said nothing, but trembled so violently Cahira feared she would drop the baby.

“Go.” Cahira held her emotions in check until her maid left the room, then she fell back onto the bed and dug her fingers into her pillow, watering it with hot tears.