Pages of Ireland (Daughters of Ireland Book 2) by Cindy Thomson

Author:Cindy Thomson [Thomson, Cindy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2016-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

“The lying man has promised

Whatever thing he could,

The greedy man believes him,

And thinks his promise good.”

Old Irish saying recorded by Douglas Hyde

Ardan stood in the shadows at the edge of the road and watched the Uí Náir warriors march by, spears straight, iron and bronze heads polished to a shine. Each one wore a long shirt belted at the waist, and some had daggers stowed there. Many carried a long pelt over their shoulders that would serve as a nighttime bed cover in the forest. Most all had stiffened their hair with lime and groomed their beards meticulously. It was a prideful army and a strong one. A wee clump of meek Christians would be no match for them.

Ardan kept pace with those in front, but hung back in the woods where his black feather cloak would help disguise him. The men had been told a powerful druid would accompany them, albeit from the shadows.

Unfortunately, there were women among the entourage, some warriors, and others serving the army by cooking and tending to injuries. The women made Ardan nervous because they questioned his presence more frequently than the men did, and they talked among themselves. That was the most disturbing. He would know their secrets in time, but now he found their nattering disquieting. Another display of power would be necessary very soon to keep them in line.

He paused to study the army. He made note of their leather helmets, their bull-hide corslets, their heavily oiled leather greaves protecting their lower legs. Most carried shields, although such protection would be unnecessary unless the monastery called in another kingdom’s army, and there had been no time for that. Cill Dara had no weapons of their own capable of causing significant injury to these fighters, he knew. No monastery ever did. He glanced again at his palms and then rubbed them together furiously. The memory of blood was ever present. As soon as he had time, he would attempt a spell to get rid of it. He was pleased he now had an army to do the distasteful work.

He turned his focus back to the marching men. No army could be better primed to help Ardan achieve his goal.

“Halt!” came a voice at the front of the line.

Ardan scurried forward, his feathers making a rustling noise against the faded green leaves in the wood. “Why are you stopping?” Ardan shouted at the commander. “We have far to go.”

The commander, a man with thick red hair mounded up with lime in the same fashion as his soldiers, glared at him. “We are stopping because I cannot march this army without feeding them.”

Women scurried about in the open meadow like mice, gathering firewood and unpacking barrels of food.

Even though Ardan’s own stomach rumbled with hunger, he despised this delay. He climbed onto the low branches of an oak that spread over the west edge of the meadow like the arms of a protective grandmother. From there, he observed the activity and listened in on some cooks who hadn’t noticed his perch.

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