will not be gone long.”
Sorcha mumbled and complained and groaned, but she followed, albeit a few steps behind.
She is probably as curious as I
, Cahira thought, scanning the trees ahead for any unusual signs of movement.
But she would never admit it
.
Slanted sunlight shimmered off the glowing green foliage that lined the path; the afternoon was as sweet as a September afternoon could be. Despite the cool breath of the wind, the air was warm and burnished with sunlight. After ten minutes of brisk walking, Cahira felt her step grow lighter with the elation that always overcame her the moment she passed from view of the fortress’s lookouts. In her younger days, before her father was king, she had often slipped away from her nursemaids, and neither of her parents had seemed particularly distressed when one of her father’s men brought her home. Since she had grown a woman’s body, however, her father frowned at the thought of Cahira’s gallivants, and her mother went positively pale at the idea of her daughter wandering in the countryside like a common betagh.
But how wonderful it was to wander outside! A wealth of puffy clouds had blown in to decorate the sky, and the thick ragwort on the hills colored her father’s pastures with a golden glow. A herd of cattle lazily lifted their heads as she approached, then went back to grazing with a distracted, diffident air.
Sorcha finally stopped complaining. As the pastures yielded to the thick trees that shadowed the river, the maid quickened her step until she walked by Cahira’s side. Together the girls moved through the trees, and Cahira shivered as the treetops stirred with the whisper of a warning breeze.
“’Twill be cold tonight,” Sorcha murmured, ducking beneath a branch that arched over the path. “I can feel winter’s breath in the wind.”
“The king’s fire will keep you warm enough.” Cahira’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Doesn’t it warm every soul at Rathcroghan?” She lifted her head as she caught sight of molten silver beyond the trees. “Here is the river. I only hope we are in time.”
A tremor touched Sorcha’s full lips. “In time for
what?”
Not answering, Cahira lifted her skirts and ran to the line where the trail to Rathcroghan intersected the grassy riverbank. Half hiding behind a tree, she stared down the hoof-pounded avenue until it blended into a copse of trees near the horizon. Nothing stirred along the riverbank but the tall grasses already crisp with autumn’s approach. She saw no sign of life—no horses, no peasants, and absolutely no Normans.
“Are you content?” Sorcha demanded, panting heavily as she hurried to keep up. “There is nothing here. Shall we turn back now?”
“Not yet.” Leaning against a tree, Cahira positioned herself behind a screen of leaves, then motioned for Sorcha to do the same. “The afternoon is young. Let us wait and see if the Normans will pass by again.”
“They might return to Athlone by another way.” Sorcha thrashed her way into the brush. “You don’t know they will return along the river.”
“They’ll need to water their horses,” Cahira answered, staring off into the distance. “And this clearing is a good place. If they noted it as they passed this morning, they might return here.”
Sorcha snorted in disbelief, then eased back into the forest shadows. With great particularity, she lifted her skirt a few inches, nudged a few twigs out of the way with the dainty toe of her slippers, and then sank to the ground in a billowing cloud of fabric.
Cahira turned and watched the river, determined to wait until sunset if necessary. From this vantage point she could see a good distance toward the north, for the drovers had cleared the riverbank herein order to water her father’s cattle. A bend in the river itself obstructed the southern view, but the Normans, if Rian had spoken the truth, would most certainly be coming from the north.
Why were they canvassing her
Sorcha mumbled and complained and groaned, but she followed, albeit a few steps behind.
She is probably as curious as I
, Cahira thought, scanning the trees ahead for any unusual signs of movement.
But she would never admit it
.
Slanted sunlight shimmered off the glowing green foliage that lined the path; the afternoon was as sweet as a September afternoon could be. Despite the cool breath of the wind, the air was warm and burnished with sunlight. After ten minutes of brisk walking, Cahira felt her step grow lighter with the elation that always overcame her the moment she passed from view of the fortress’s lookouts. In her younger days, before her father was king, she had often slipped away from her nursemaids, and neither of her parents had seemed particularly distressed when one of her father’s men brought her home. Since she had grown a woman’s body, however, her father frowned at the thought of Cahira’s gallivants, and her mother went positively pale at the idea of her daughter wandering in the countryside like a common betagh.
But how wonderful it was to wander outside! A wealth of puffy clouds had blown in to decorate the sky, and the thick ragwort on the hills colored her father’s pastures with a golden glow. A herd of cattle lazily lifted their heads as she approached, then went back to grazing with a distracted, diffident air.
Sorcha finally stopped complaining. As the pastures yielded to the thick trees that shadowed the river, the maid quickened her step until she walked by Cahira’s side. Together the girls moved through the trees, and Cahira shivered as the treetops stirred with the whisper of a warning breeze.
“’Twill be cold tonight,” Sorcha murmured, ducking beneath a branch that arched over the path. “I can feel winter’s breath in the wind.”
“The king’s fire will keep you warm enough.” Cahira’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Doesn’t it warm every soul at Rathcroghan?” She lifted her head as she caught sight of molten silver beyond the trees. “Here is the river. I only hope we are in time.”
A tremor touched Sorcha’s full lips. “In time for
what?”
Not answering, Cahira lifted her skirts and ran to the line where the trail to Rathcroghan intersected the grassy riverbank. Half hiding behind a tree, she stared down the hoof-pounded avenue until it blended into a copse of trees near the horizon. Nothing stirred along the riverbank but the tall grasses already crisp with autumn’s approach. She saw no sign of life—no horses, no peasants, and absolutely no Normans.
“Are you content?” Sorcha demanded, panting heavily as she hurried to keep up. “There is nothing here. Shall we turn back now?”
“Not yet.” Leaning against a tree, Cahira positioned herself behind a screen of leaves, then motioned for Sorcha to do the same. “The afternoon is young. Let us wait and see if the Normans will pass by again.”
“They might return to Athlone by another way.” Sorcha thrashed her way into the brush. “You don’t know they will return along the river.”
“They’ll need to water their horses,” Cahira answered, staring off into the distance. “And this clearing is a good place. If they noted it as they passed this morning, they might return here.”
Sorcha snorted in disbelief, then eased back into the forest shadows. With great particularity, she lifted her skirt a few inches, nudged a few twigs out of the way with the dainty toe of her slippers, and then sank to the ground in a billowing cloud of fabric.
Cahira turned and watched the river, determined to wait until sunset if necessary. From this vantage point she could see a good distance toward the north, for the drovers had cleared the riverbank herein order to water her father’s cattle. A bend in the river itself obstructed the southern view, but the Normans, if Rian had spoken the truth, would most certainly be coming from the north.
Why were they canvassing her
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