She’d be as out of place in a convent as a milk bucket under a bull.
“Good day to you, sir.” Sorcha smiled prettily as the first pair of men approached on horseback. Aware of the maid’s gaze upon her, Cahira managed a faint, graceless imitation of Sorcha’s expression.
“Good day to you, lovely lass.” One by one, her father’s chieftains and warriors filed through the gate. Cahira smiled until her jaws ached, then turned her gaze toward the rolling hills beyond the trampled Rathcroghan road. Despite autumn’s cooling breath, the pastures of Rathcroghan were green and vibrant, the cleared fields sloping gently toward the river a short distance away. With any luck, she and Sorcha could find a tree or a bit of brush in which to hide while they spied out the invaders.
She drew a deep breath and forbade herself to weaken. “When the last man is gone, we’ll walk to the river,” she announced, lifting her chin. “Rian told my father he saw Normans riding north along the river this morning. If they intend to sleep at Athlone tonight, they’ll be returning soon.”
Sorcha’s blue eyes filled with distress. “Why would you want to see
Normans?
I’d sooner go off to meet the devil himself.”
Cahira shushed her maid with a stern glance, then dipped her head toward two mounted men departing through the gate. They returned her salute with broad smiles, then spurred their horses. Sorcha fell silent as the last of the Connacht men rode away in a proud parade. The silence held as Lorcan, the revered brehon, slowlyapproached with a carved staff in his aged hand and his student by his side.
Lorcan paused before Cahira. His eyes, bright beams above skin as dried and dark as tanned leather, focused upon her face. “I dreamed of you last night, my child.” A silken thread of warning lined his voice.
Cahira looked up, her silence inviting him to continue, but he only watched her, his sparkling black eyes sinking into nets of wrinkles as he smiled.
She gave him an uncertain nod. “I hope it was a good dream.”
He looked away then, toward the eastern horizon, and Cahira shivered as the wings of shadowy foreboding brushed her spirit. Had he mentioned this dream to her father? If the dream boded ill, he would have spoken to the king, who placed a great deal of value on the brehon’s opinions. If the dream contained a warning, Cahira’s father might attempt to clip her wings.
She waited, tense and fearful, as the brehon continued to stare at the horizon. Finally he spoke again. “When God made time, he made plenty of it. All will not end in your lifetime, my dear, as it will not end in mine.”
And then, without a backward glance, the brehon picked up his staff and moved away, gliding in that effortless step that always made Cahira wonder if he had wheels beneath the hem of his robe. His silent student followed, leaving Cahira mystified and Sorcha troubled.
“That’s not good, lass. Surely that is not a good sign! Let us go tell your father what Lorcan said. Or perhaps your mother can make sense of it—”
“Sure, and when has Lorcan ever made sense?” Cahira’s gaze followed the tall brehon down the trail, marveling that a man so thin could seem so strong. “But he smiled at us, did you not see? If he had wanted to bring bad tidings, he would not have greeted us so warmly.”
She waited until the brehon and his student disappeared beyond a bend in the rutted boreen, then glanced over her shoulder. Outside the stable, Rian and her father stood beside a pregnant mare, probablydiscussing the fate of the unborn foal. “Ask for it, you eejit,” she murmured, studying the young man’s face. “You are his favorite; Father would give you anything you asked for.”
After tossing one glance toward the upstairs window to be certain her mother was not peering out, Cahira pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. “Come, Sorcha.” She stepped onto the beaten path and gestured toward the river trail. “We
“Good day to you, sir.” Sorcha smiled prettily as the first pair of men approached on horseback. Aware of the maid’s gaze upon her, Cahira managed a faint, graceless imitation of Sorcha’s expression.
“Good day to you, lovely lass.” One by one, her father’s chieftains and warriors filed through the gate. Cahira smiled until her jaws ached, then turned her gaze toward the rolling hills beyond the trampled Rathcroghan road. Despite autumn’s cooling breath, the pastures of Rathcroghan were green and vibrant, the cleared fields sloping gently toward the river a short distance away. With any luck, she and Sorcha could find a tree or a bit of brush in which to hide while they spied out the invaders.
She drew a deep breath and forbade herself to weaken. “When the last man is gone, we’ll walk to the river,” she announced, lifting her chin. “Rian told my father he saw Normans riding north along the river this morning. If they intend to sleep at Athlone tonight, they’ll be returning soon.”
Sorcha’s blue eyes filled with distress. “Why would you want to see
Normans?
I’d sooner go off to meet the devil himself.”
Cahira shushed her maid with a stern glance, then dipped her head toward two mounted men departing through the gate. They returned her salute with broad smiles, then spurred their horses. Sorcha fell silent as the last of the Connacht men rode away in a proud parade. The silence held as Lorcan, the revered brehon, slowlyapproached with a carved staff in his aged hand and his student by his side.
Lorcan paused before Cahira. His eyes, bright beams above skin as dried and dark as tanned leather, focused upon her face. “I dreamed of you last night, my child.” A silken thread of warning lined his voice.
Cahira looked up, her silence inviting him to continue, but he only watched her, his sparkling black eyes sinking into nets of wrinkles as he smiled.
She gave him an uncertain nod. “I hope it was a good dream.”
He looked away then, toward the eastern horizon, and Cahira shivered as the wings of shadowy foreboding brushed her spirit. Had he mentioned this dream to her father? If the dream boded ill, he would have spoken to the king, who placed a great deal of value on the brehon’s opinions. If the dream contained a warning, Cahira’s father might attempt to clip her wings.
She waited, tense and fearful, as the brehon continued to stare at the horizon. Finally he spoke again. “When God made time, he made plenty of it. All will not end in your lifetime, my dear, as it will not end in mine.”
And then, without a backward glance, the brehon picked up his staff and moved away, gliding in that effortless step that always made Cahira wonder if he had wheels beneath the hem of his robe. His silent student followed, leaving Cahira mystified and Sorcha troubled.
“That’s not good, lass. Surely that is not a good sign! Let us go tell your father what Lorcan said. Or perhaps your mother can make sense of it—”
“Sure, and when has Lorcan ever made sense?” Cahira’s gaze followed the tall brehon down the trail, marveling that a man so thin could seem so strong. “But he smiled at us, did you not see? If he had wanted to bring bad tidings, he would not have greeted us so warmly.”
She waited until the brehon and his student disappeared beyond a bend in the rutted boreen, then glanced over her shoulder. Outside the stable, Rian and her father stood beside a pregnant mare, probablydiscussing the fate of the unborn foal. “Ask for it, you eejit,” she murmured, studying the young man’s face. “You are his favorite; Father would give you anything you asked for.”
After tossing one glance toward the upstairs window to be certain her mother was not peering out, Cahira pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. “Come, Sorcha.” She stepped onto the beaten path and gestured toward the river trail. “We
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