Page 11 of Bound By Honor
“Your father will choose well for you, of that I am certain, for ’tis clear he loves you much.”
“Ah, but that is not always the reason for marriage, is it?” Áine was young but she knew the way of the world for women of noble birth. She turned to the countess whose face reflected the warm light of the setting sun.
Lady Margaret smiled. “You are correct, of course. It is rare a woman can choose. Even noble English widows are considered the king’s wards and can be bargained off for lands and alliances.”
Áine was suddenly chilled. “Should we go inside? The air grows cold.”
“Probably a wise idea. The men will be wondering if we fell off the cliff.”
They laughed as they walked back together yet a foreboding came over Áine and she reached out to pat Finn’s head. She sensed her life would soon change did she want it to or not.
Their guests decided to depart that eve, the sky giving sufficient light for their travel.
Áine bid them Godspeed, waving from where she stood next to her father on the road in front of the castle.
“You did well tonight,” he said. “The earl and The O’Neill both spoke highly of you and your proficiency as a hostess.”
She waited for she knew he would say more.
They walked into the castle and, without looking at her, he said, “The O’Neill has asked for your hand in marriage.”
For a moment, Áine could say nothing as her mind reeled with the shock of his words. “But Father,” she protested, “he is older than you by a decade! I am not yet sixteen and he is more than fifty. Surely you do not mean to give me to him?”
“’Tis true, Niall O’Neill has waited long to marry and sire legitimate children. But he is now firmly ensconced as the King of Tirowen and in great favor with the Earl of Ulster and King Edward. The value of the alliance to the O’Cahans is immeasurable.”
Her father’s voice was not stern. He was rarely stern with her. But in his kindness she sensed his resolve and heard the door slamming on her dreams. Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, yet one lone tear betrayed her, streaking down her face. She brushed it away.
He must have seen it. “The O’Neill has vowed to treat you well,” he assured her. “I believe him, for he has loved you for some time. He thought you enchanting as a young girl at his inauguration three years ago. I told him then I would not consider a marriage for you until you reached your womanhood.”
Suddenly it came to her. This was the fate the countess had alluded to. She must have known what was coming. And this was the cause of the regret she had seen in her father’s eyes. The whole evening had been arranged to bring about this result.
“This is God’s choice for you, Áine. Consider that one day your son may be the King of Tirowen.”
She made no reply. Whether it was God’s choice, she could not say. Clearly, it was her father’s.
“You will have the summer, Áine, but prepare yourself. In early autumn, you will become the wife of The O’Neill…and his queen.”
She turned sixteen in June and thereafter time moved all too rapidly.
Determined to make the most of her remaining days of freedom, she left her wedding clothes to Nessa and others, who cared about such things, while she and Finn took long walks and lingered on the clifftop where she spent time among her birds.
At night by candlelight with Finn curled up at her feet, she read the poems of the bards, drinking in the history they recorded, some concerning her own family. One poem, in particular, struck her, the lament recording the death of her grandfather, Magnus O’Cahan, at the Battle of Down. The sadness in the bard’s words spoke to her heart:
Five of the active Clan Cahan
Fell in the slaughter besides Magnus;
The fall of five burst the battle array.
Alas! Are they not losses!
Though to me each man is a grief
For O’Cahan the yellow-haired I most grieve.
He is the wound of the artery of my head.
This is the blood which I cannot bear.
