Page 65 of Bound By Honor
“Nonetheless,” said Lord Cumee, “you might wish to know that with us are nearly five hundred warriors who would assure my two friends are heard.”
One of Domnall’s men came to him and whispered in his ear. Domnall’s gaze narrowed on Angus. “I see. Islesmen and O’Cahans. What an interesting alliance. Well, I for one have no love for the Macdonalds. You are the enemies of my mother’s kin.” Shifting his gaze to Rob, he said, “Nor do I defer to any Scot who is a Norman knight.”
Angus was only mildly surprised that Domnall’s hatred should extend to Normans in Scotland as well as the Macdonalds. Having no words for such a rogue, Angus remained silent. Rob, likewise, said nothing but his look of disdain for the man before him was clear to all.
Lord Cumee did not rise to Domnall’s baiting. Instead, he said, “I warn you, Domnall. Treat the people well if you ever think to reign over them. You have killed their much-loved king and you now have a difficult hill to climb to earn their respect.” Turning to go, he paused, looking back. “Mayhap at another time, we can speak of your installment as King of Tirowen if, indeed, this is allowed to stand. But do not cast eyes toward my daughter, nor speak of her again.”
Angus was gratified that Lord Cumee had put Domnall in his place concerning Lady Áine. His reminder to Domnall of the O’Cahans’ hereditary role in inaugurating the Kings of Tirowen was a jab that surely hit home. Though the rebel might think otherwise, Domnall was not yet king.
Angus followed Lord Cumee and Rob out the door. Domnall’s men parted to allow them a clear path to exit. Once outside, John and Duncan approached with an anxious look.
Before Angus could speak, Lord Cumee drew them aside with his chiefs. “We have enough men to take them, but Brian O’Neill’s son is very young and, without an O’Neill to install in Domnall’s place, the best course of action is to wait. Let us see to Brian O’Neill’s burial and return to Dunseverick to await news of de Burgh.”
Dunseverick Castle, northern coast of Ulster, February 1295
WINTER HAD LINGERED and the skies were rarely blue on the Ulster coast where once Áine had walked with her young son. Each day seemed to bring more rain, blurring the landscape and keeping the land from drying out.
On the rare occasions when the rain paused, Áine would walk the promontory, lifting her skirts to avoid the muddy ground. Sometimes she would ride to the villages with men from the castle guard or Dermot to see if they could help their people. Roofs had to be repaired and the women helped with the thatch. With so many chiefs and men gone, there was much to do and many mouths to feed.
One particularly dreary day, Finn, who had not left the fireplace all morning, breathed his last. She knew it was coming and yet the reality of it hit her hard. Sitting next to him on the rug in front of the fireplace, she ran her hand over his rough coat, remembering their times together. “I will miss you, dear friend.”
Her son came to inquire of Finn’s health. All in the castle knew he was close to death. “Is Finn all right?” he asked in his little boy voice, his dark blue eyes full of concern.
“He has left this life, Little Prince. We must lay him to rest beneath the stars and remember what a wonderful hound he was.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke. Brian looked from Finn to her. “Mama, areyouall right?”
Though Brian had seen birds and small creatures die, the death of something or someone he loved was new to him. “I am well, Little Prince,” she said, brushing his bright red hair from his forehead. “But I am sad Finn is gone. We must thank God he was ours for a time, eh?”
Brian nodded and laid his head on Finn’s gray body. The sweet gesture of goodbye caused Áine’s tears to fall afresh.
Later that day, the rain abated and they buried Finn on a spot where the flowers would grow in the early spring. While Brian was sent to his nap, Áine joined her brother on the castle battlements where he went each afternoon to watch for their father’s return.
With their backs to the sea, they fixed their eyes on the approach from the south. Her brother’s face was creased with worry.
“He will return,” she encouraged, all the while trying to convince herself it was true. “If the reports are correct and Domnall O’Neill has slayed King Brian, he will not touch Father. Earl Richard would never consent to Domnall’s remaining The O’Neill were he to do so.”
“We’ve no news of the Red Earl’s fate, Áine, and it has been months.”
“King Edward will not allow his earl to rot in Lea Castle’s dungeon.”
As they were about to leave the battlements, Áine glimpsed riders in the distance. “Dermot, look! Can that be Father?”
“Yes!” said Dermot. “Thank God.”
Her father rode at the head of his men and, from what Áine could see, he was uninjured and whole. Dermot ran for the stairs leading down.
Relief flowing through her, Áine followed.
In the bailey, Áine waited for her father to dismount, listening as Dermot pelted him with questions.
“Father, was there a great battle?” Dermot asked with eager interest.
“Nay, Son. When we arrived, the fighting was over and Lord Angus’ men were burying the dead.”
“Lord Angus was there?” she interjected.
“He was, though he and Earl Robert arrived too late to help. They had come from Tirconnell where they were told of Domnall’s intent to invade Tirowen. I exchanged words with the villain while he was in the process of drinking himself to perdition to celebrate his stolen title.”
