Page 39 of Bound By Honor
Dunseverick Castle, northern coast of Ulster, Ireland, early September1292
ÁINE GAZED OUT the castle window and smiled. The rain that had come in the night with rumbling thunder and gusts of howling wind had departed, leaving the air pleasantly cool and the sky a cloudless blue.
She turned to address her young son, who was sitting on a woolen blanket next to a chair on which Áine had been sitting. Busy with his playthings, Brian was a happy child. “What do you think, Little Prince? Shall we visit the birds on the cliffs?”
The boy, who had been walking for only a few months, pulled himself up using the chair leg and grinned. The freckles on his face, just beginning to emerge, were framed by his bright red hair. The dark blue eyes that looked back at her were those of his father.
“Birdies?” she inquired, knowing this word, at least, would get a reaction.
“Bir-dee,” he mouthed the familiar word.
Whenever the weather was fair, she took Brian with her on her walks to see the birds she loved to watch.
Her wolfhound, Finn, who was very protective of her son, was always with them. Finn rose from his place by the fire and came to stand before her, his copper-colored eyes gazing at her expectantly.
“Finn,” said Brian, pointing to the hound. His name was one of the first words Brian had spoken.
“Well, if we are agreed, let us go and visit our friends. Come, Finn.” Lifting Brian into her arms, with the hound on her heels, she swept out the door a servant opened for them, past the guards and into the bright sunlight. The brilliance of it rendered the wide swath of grass a rich green.
The wind carried the sound of the noisy kittiwakes and the raucous cries of the gulls to her ears. Autumn brought many birds to Dunseverick. Geese and ducks abounded as well as curlews and sandpipers on the shores below the castle.
As they took the path around the promontory, the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks hundreds of feet below joined the chatter of the birds for a splendid chorus.
She set Brian down but kept hold of his hand, putting herself between the cliff edge and him as he toddled along. With Finn following closely, she spoke to her son of his people, the O’Cahans and the O’Neills, as she often did.
“The O’Cahans are a people of great valor, Brian, a family you can be proud of. So, too, are the O’Neills. Your father, Little Prince, was a great warrior and a good king.” How much Brian understood, she could not have said but she would keep speaking of it, for she had determined her son would be raised to know of his birthright.
As the time for his nap drew near, she observed Brian’s steps flagging, his little legs slowing. Finding a seat on a nearby bench, she pulled him into her arms, rocking him as she sang an old hymn long known to her family. “Be thou my vision, oh Lord of my heart…” Soon, her little lad fell asleep. Observing his sweet face, Áine breathed a deep sigh of contentment. She had no complaints about the path her life had taken. Not now anyway. She thanked God for her family and her son and the place high above the sea she called home.
She had begun to doze when Nessa’s voice stirred her to awareness. “Oh, there you are, my lady,” said her handmaiden. “I’ve come to tell you that your father’s guests have arrived.”
“The ones from Fermanagh?”
“There are two of them is all I know, lords by the look of them.”
“Is Father with them?” Áine did not want to be left alone with men of high rank who her father had invited to the castle in the hope one would appeal to her as a husband. Since her mourning had ended, her father had turned his attention to another match.
“He speaks with them now, my lady. It was your father who requested your presence.”
Áine rose and handed her sleeping son to Nessa. “He will sleep for a while yet.”
“I will see his nurse watches over him.”
Áine tossed Finn an inquiring glance. “Stay with Brian if you like.” With that, Finn turned and trotted after Nessa. She did not begrudge Finn his newly divided loyalty.
Smoothing the wrinkles from her indigo tunic, she entered the castle but could do nothing about her wind-tossed hair that hung long down her back.
“Ah, my daughter comes,” said Áine’s father. He stood by the fireplace with two men, one older and one younger, dressed in fine tunics embellished with gold and silver threads. “Áine, meet our guests, Donn Maguire, King of Fermanagh, and his grandson, Ruaidhri, who, I am told, prefers ‘Rory’. They are well known to the Earl of Ulster.” Which was her father’s way of saying he approved of them. The two men appeared refreshed. Mayhap they had stopped for the night to take shelter from the storm.
Áine curtseyed before them.
Her father had lured a great prize to his castle for her to consider. Fermanagh was a kingdom whose importance was on the rise and, except for challenges from the O’Connells of Tirconnell, was at peace and allied with the O’Neills.
She smiled and extended her hand to the king whose graying brown hair was clipped to just below his chin. His beard, salted with silver, was well-trimmed. She might have guessed he was a king by his presence that spoke of regal confidence.
The king bowed over her hand.
Mindful of what she must look like, she said, “Please forgive my appearance, my lord. I was walking the promontory and the wind—”
