Page 8 of Bound By Honor
Nessa curtseyed. “You will, I am certain, my lady.” And then with a smile, she added, “I will see to it!”
Her handmaiden was at her best in dressing Áine as a lady. “Did my little starfish arrive safely in the tidepool at the cove?”
“Aye, Mistress, he did.”
A smile on her face, Áine headed for the door.
Later that day, her tasks finished and having bathed and dressed for the evening, Áine came down to the hall to assure all was ready. Finn was asleep beside the fire, no doubt sated by his dinner. He raised his head at her entrance and then laid it down on his front paws, keeping his alert eyes focused on her.
Torches set into brackets on the stone walls illuminated the shields, banners and tapestries. One of the tapestries, stitched in cream, blue and green, was Áine’s own design and featured her birds, her favorite herring gull in the center.
Candles on the head table and sideboard and a fire in the stone fireplace added a warm glow to the large chamber and took the dampness from the air. She was pleased at all she saw, knowing the dinner she had planned would also impress their guests.
“All looks to be in order, Áine,” said her father when he arrived.
“Thank you. I was hoping you would find it so.”
The two of them were still conversing when a servant came to tell them a carriage had arrived. The O’Neill might come by horse but since the earl was traveling with his countess, Áine expected the carriage to be theirs.
The castle door opened and the guard escorted the two inside. Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, was a slender man of thirty years with ruddy countenance, dark red hair and well-trimmed beard. He wore the fine clothing of a nobleman, a dark blue tunic with green surcoat and a jeweled belt. Though he was born in Ulster, the Red Earl, as he was called by many, had been raised in England and was now, with the blessing of England’s king, the most powerful Norman in Ireland.
His countess, Lady Margaret, the daughter of the Earl of Kent, was of fair coloring and her figure shown to advantage by a gown of green damask. A gold chain and jewels worn around her neck identified her as an Englishwoman of high rank. Áine liked the countess for the smile on her pleasant face was always genuine.
Irish women, whose long flowing hair was the subject of bards’ poems, did not often wear veils or head coverings, even the married ones, but since Margaret de Burgh was English, she covered her flaxen hair with fine linen.
“Welcome to Dunseverick,” said Áine’s father, reaching his hand to the earl. Inclining his head to the countess, he said, “Lady Margaret, you grace my hall.”
Áine curtseyed. “My lord, my lady.”
“’Tis good to see you, Áine,” said the countess, giving Áine an appraising look. “You have grown into a fine young lady.”
Áine thanked her but before she could say more, de Burgh inquired, “Has The O’Neill arrived yet?”
“Not yet,” said Áine’s father. “I expect he will be riding up to my door at any moment with his guard. Meantime, let us partake of some good French wine.”
A servant brought a tray of jeweled silver goblets filled with red wine and offered them first to their guests. When the tray was offered to her, having many duties this eve, Áine took a goblet but did not intend to drink the wine until dinner.
“How is my son doing at Dunluce?” Áine’s father asked the earl.
“I am told he is a sturdy lad and diligent in his training,” said de Burgh. “As well, he has a gift for languages at which he excels.”
Her father smiled at the earl’s words.
Áine was happy to hear the report concerning her brother. Dermot had been anxious about doing well at Dunluce before he left.
Just then, the heavy castle door swung open. His dark blue eyes alight with fierce intent, The O’Neill strode in on a gust of wind that swirled around the hall, scattering flames in the fireplace.
Tall and elegantly attired in black velvet and silver, a jeweled dagger at his hip, Niall O’Neill’s presence filled the room. His fair skin bore lines etched by time, but he still had the body of a warrior and the determined look of a man who was ever on a mission.
Áine had been told that at one time, at war with his brother for the kingdom, Niall had shaved the front of his head and allowed the remainder of his hair to hang long down his back, the sign of a warrior’s oath. The nickname “Culanach”, given him then, meant “of the long back hair”. The description no longer applied as he now wore his ginger hair only to his shoulders and his beard short. Áine was too young to have known him then. Now, the silver in his hair and beard marked his fifth decade.
To Áine, all the O’Neills looked alike with their reddish hair, some lighter than others, and their penetrating eyes and bold features. They acted alike as well, often at war with each other over Tirowen, their large kingdom in the center of Ulster.
“At last, The O’Neill graces my humble hall with his presence!” announced her father, a note of amusement in his voice as they were good friends. “Welcome.”
“’Tis my honor, Cumee,” said the King of Tirowen, bowing more deeply than courtesy and his superior rank called for. “And greetings to you, my lord earl, and to your countess.” He inclined his head to King Edward’s man and bowed to Lady Margaret.
“My lord,” Áine said, curtseying before him.
