Page 12 of Bound By Honor
Grievous to our children and women
Is the killing of Magnus O’Cahan.
Ireland had ever been the land of warring clans and men who, from jealousy or want of power, would kill to gain another man’s title, another man’s office. Was it their destiny to always be so? In marrying The O’Neill, would she be dragged deeper into such conflicts? For her, it was a futile inquiry.
In those long summer days and the months that passed, Áine matured. She supposed it was the sadness of this passage into adulthood and the coming unwanted marriage that aged her. She had accepted her fate but it did not bring a smile to her face.
The O’Neill paid her two visits that summer. The first, she was convinced, was merely to assure himself she had consented to his suit.
“I trust you are looking forward to our marriage?” he asked as they went riding one dreary day. He had taken pains with his appearance, dressing in fine garments and his graying ginger hair neatly trimmed.
She looked straight ahead wondering where her birds were. “My father has agreed and I know my duty, my lord.”
“Call me by my given name, Áine. After all, we will soon be wed.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said absently.
Her reply called forth a chuckle from him.
The second visit was, to her mind, an effort to court her. He was eager; she was resigned. As they walked the clifftop path, he had taken her hand and she had not pulled it back, for soon he would take far more liberties with her person. She dreaded her wedding night, but then what girl bartered for lands or an alliance did not? Those who married kings were never given a choice. At least the King of Tirowen wanted her and, if what she saw in his dark blue gaze spoke truth, he desired her as well.
Before he left that day, he placed in her hand a golden ring brooch studded with gems. “Think of me when you wear it.”
“I will, my lord.”
On the day they were to leave for Tirowen and her marriage to its king, the dark clouds overhead that portended rain mirrored her mood. She lingered long on the clifftop, saying goodbye to her birds. They would never understand where she had gone and that was as it should be. Finn and Nessa would come with her but all else she cared for would stay behind.
When she could delay no longer, she faced the sea that mirrored the gray clouds and inhaled deeply of the fragrance of home, wanting to never forget. With a last look at her birds, she turned and slowly walked to where her father waited by the carriage.
CHAPTER 3
Tirconnell, Ulster, Ireland, early October 1290
TO ANGUS, IRELAND seemed a world apart from Argyll and the Isles. He stared wide-eyed at the rugged sea cliffs looming above the white-tipped waves as he and his brother and their cousin, Duncan MacAlasdair, sailed down the west coast of Tirconnell.
A wild coast, it challenged the best seaman. Braving high winds and the churning Atlantic the thirty galleys the Lord of the Isles had brought to Ulster were so pressed at times that Angus and his companions took to the oars to give some relief to the oarsmen.
Angus was glad his cousin had joined them as Duncan was good company and cheerful in the worst of times. His father, the brother of Angus Mor, though a Macdonald, had given his sons the surname MacAlasdair, beginning a new clan.
Cherub-like in appearance with his honey-colored hair, green eyes and ruddy cheeks, Duncan could, at times, be a bit of a rogue when it came to the lasses. But he was a strong hand Angus counted upon in times of trouble. When a powerful wave crashed over the gunwale, ripping an oar from a crewman’s hand, Duncan dove for the oar and handed it back to the seaman, saying “I wonder when the hot wine will be served.” That produced smiles and a few lusty remarks from the crew.
By late afternoon, wet and tired, they reached Donegal Bay and sighted their destination. Angus was never so happy as when he fixed his eyes upon that long stretch of sand.
Once the ships were beached, Angus Mor drew his captains to him. “See that no man steps over the boundary into Tirowen. The Earl of Ulster tells me the O’Neills are at war with each other just now.” Angus could see his father had taken the warning seriously when he added, “I have no wish to enter that fray.”
At the captains’ nods, the Islesmen, galloglass and archers took up their weapons and followed their lord inland. Donning his helmet and shouldering his long-handled axe, Angus beckoned John and Duncan to follow. The three of them trudged over the sand dunes.
Some distance on, they entered a pine forest and were soon engulfed by a heavy mist.
“’Tis a cold that seeps into a man’s bones,” said John, walking at his side.
“Aye,” said Duncan, “and we were not dry to begin with. It reminds me of the damp fog that rolls in over Skye.” Then, with a grin, “When a man seeks a warming fire and a willing lass.”
Other than the vague anxiety Angus always experienced before a coming battle, he did not fear the O’Donnells. Not when he would be fighting alongside so many galloglass and Islesmen. Years of fighting with them had given him confidence in his skills. Still, he regretted yet another battle involving his kin. It was bad enough they were constantly at war with the MacDougalls of Lorne, who were also descendants of Somerled. Now, they could add to their enemies the O’Donnells of Tirconnell.
This time, Angus had not asked to be taken along. His father had sought him out. “You’ll be sailing with me, Angus. I expect I will have need of your sword arm and axe before this task is done.”
When Angus had asked if his older brother, Alex, now thirty, would be going with them, his father shook his head. “He’ll stay on Islay. Should I not return, he must take my place. ’Tis enough you will have the company of your cousin and the responsibility for your younger brother.”
