Cahira pulled her cloak more tightly around her and glanced toward the doors of the hall. Not a single man had yet appeared, so someone must have broached a new topic and set their tongues to wagging again. She wrapped her fingers in the edges of her cloak and turned her back to the wind, reminding herself to be patient.
The compound that housed Felim O’Connor and his family was nothing like the grand castles the Normans had erected in the southern kingdoms. The brehons and filid spoke of castles with tall stone walls and impregnable towers marked with slits through which an archer could shoot at approaching enemies without fear. Some Norman castles, the rumors reported, featured private water closets and pipes through which water could be brought from tanks on the roof.
The O’Connor stronghold, like all those of the Irish kings, had been built according to the ancient brehon laws. Erected by the king’s lowest vassals, his
ceili giallnai
, in return for his protection, patronage, and prayers, the king’s home was guarded by two ringed embankments of earth topped by spiked fences. Cahira suspected that the Normans would think the wattle and daub dwelling small and common, but its great hall was roomy enough to seat the heads of Connacht, and the two upstairs chambers provided sleeping space for her parents, herself, and ten female servants. Murchadh and his menslept in a small building next to the stable. In the ancient times of war, when the battle cry summoned members of the king’s
ceili giallnai
to Rathcroghan, as many as two hundred men, women, and children had found shelter in the great hall.
The brehons spoke of the bloody and troubled times when Éireann’s kings had continually battled one another, but Cahira had never known anything but peace. Though rumors of unrest hung over Connacht like the low, gray rain clouds that blew in from the sea nearly every afternoon, Cahira could not imagine her life changing. So what if Richard de Burgo claimed to own Connacht—what could he possibly
do
with all of it? Each measured field would still answer to the farmer who plowed it; each cow and lamb would still depend upon an Irishman to care for it.
“You’re certain your mother will approve us being out here?” Sorcha fretted aloud. “It seems most brazen and unseemly for a king’s daughter. I’m thinking we’d be wise to go back to the house.”
“I’m not a king’s daughter.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened for a moment, then she snorted. “Ha! How you jest, lass! Of
course
you’re a king’s daughter. The whole of Connacht knows it.”
“I wasn’t jesting. What I meant to say”—Cahira lifted her chin and met her maid’s wide gaze straight on—“is I wasn’t
born
a king’s daughter. I don’t want to be special.”
Astonishment touched the maid’s round face. “Not want—but how can you say that? We all are what God makes us. There’s no denying where he puts us. He put a crown on your father’s head, and he put me in your charge.” A glow rose in the maid’s face, as though she contained a candle that had just been lit. “Besides, I’m thinking that he created us all special. No one is more special than others in his eyes.”
Cahira gave her maid a black look, then lifted her gaze. The door to the hall had opened, and men were filling the courtyard, some moving toward the stable, others toward the kitchen.
“Hurry, please,” she whispered, rhythmically bending her knees beneath her cloak. “I don’t want to stand here all day.”
“You’ll give them a fright if you keep jumping like a haunt,” Sorcha remarked, lifting a brow. “Stand still, lass, and smile at the gentlemen. One of them is bound to have a son of marriageable age.”
Cahira gritted her teeth as the real reason for her mother’s request became obvious. An unmarried eighteen-year-old daughter was no shame if the girl planned to enter a convent, but Cahira had never even considered a religious vocation.
The compound that housed Felim O’Connor and his family was nothing like the grand castles the Normans had erected in the southern kingdoms. The brehons and filid spoke of castles with tall stone walls and impregnable towers marked with slits through which an archer could shoot at approaching enemies without fear. Some Norman castles, the rumors reported, featured private water closets and pipes through which water could be brought from tanks on the roof.
The O’Connor stronghold, like all those of the Irish kings, had been built according to the ancient brehon laws. Erected by the king’s lowest vassals, his
ceili giallnai
, in return for his protection, patronage, and prayers, the king’s home was guarded by two ringed embankments of earth topped by spiked fences. Cahira suspected that the Normans would think the wattle and daub dwelling small and common, but its great hall was roomy enough to seat the heads of Connacht, and the two upstairs chambers provided sleeping space for her parents, herself, and ten female servants. Murchadh and his menslept in a small building next to the stable. In the ancient times of war, when the battle cry summoned members of the king’s
ceili giallnai
to Rathcroghan, as many as two hundred men, women, and children had found shelter in the great hall.
The brehons spoke of the bloody and troubled times when Éireann’s kings had continually battled one another, but Cahira had never known anything but peace. Though rumors of unrest hung over Connacht like the low, gray rain clouds that blew in from the sea nearly every afternoon, Cahira could not imagine her life changing. So what if Richard de Burgo claimed to own Connacht—what could he possibly
do
with all of it? Each measured field would still answer to the farmer who plowed it; each cow and lamb would still depend upon an Irishman to care for it.
“You’re certain your mother will approve us being out here?” Sorcha fretted aloud. “It seems most brazen and unseemly for a king’s daughter. I’m thinking we’d be wise to go back to the house.”
“I’m not a king’s daughter.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened for a moment, then she snorted. “Ha! How you jest, lass! Of
course
you’re a king’s daughter. The whole of Connacht knows it.”
“I wasn’t jesting. What I meant to say”—Cahira lifted her chin and met her maid’s wide gaze straight on—“is I wasn’t
born
a king’s daughter. I don’t want to be special.”
Astonishment touched the maid’s round face. “Not want—but how can you say that? We all are what God makes us. There’s no denying where he puts us. He put a crown on your father’s head, and he put me in your charge.” A glow rose in the maid’s face, as though she contained a candle that had just been lit. “Besides, I’m thinking that he created us all special. No one is more special than others in his eyes.”
Cahira gave her maid a black look, then lifted her gaze. The door to the hall had opened, and men were filling the courtyard, some moving toward the stable, others toward the kitchen.
“Hurry, please,” she whispered, rhythmically bending her knees beneath her cloak. “I don’t want to stand here all day.”
“You’ll give them a fright if you keep jumping like a haunt,” Sorcha remarked, lifting a brow. “Stand still, lass, and smile at the gentlemen. One of them is bound to have a son of marriageable age.”
Cahira gritted her teeth as the real reason for her mother’s request became obvious. An unmarried eighteen-year-old daughter was no shame if the girl planned to enter a convent, but Cahira had never even considered a religious vocation.
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