Irish Lady (27 page)

Years ago when I left Tyrone for the wind-hammered beaches of Dun Na Ghal, I left behind the trappings of childhood. The earl of Tirconnaill wanted a woman of courage, a woman of O'Neill blood descended from the High Kings of Tara, a woman who would instill honor and wisdom in the warrior sons she would bear him.

From that first moment when he lifted his head, I stared in wonder at the sun-dark skin and flashing smile, at the strong neck rising from his saffron shirt, the blue flame vivid in his eyes, the shoulder-length fall of moon-bleached hair, and my mouth went dry. I vowed to have him, no matter the price. And the price had been more than dear.

Rarely, during those sorrow-filled years, had I succumbed to tears. Not on all the dreadful nights when Rory left to fight with my father or when Niall Garv O'Donnell captured Dun Na Ghal Castle, not on Midsummer's Eve when the priest prayed over the last two of the nine wee bairns I had borne to Rory and buried them beneath the salt-laced soil of the tower cemetery, nor when my lord and love, fearing for my life, said there must be no more children.

I was Nuala O'Donnell, countess of Tirconnaill, daughter and granddaughter of chiefs, descended from Brian Boru, Lion of Ireland, greatest of Tara's High Kings. If I no longer served my husband in all things, I knew he needed me still, and I had prepared well. There was gold waiting in Rome, O'Donnell gold, and land as well. The O'Donnells would live on, but not here, not in this faerie land where every stone, every plot of soil, every silver lough carried its tale of Irish blood.

It was over, eight hundred years of O'Donnell history, eight centuries of Catholic dominion, lost to the bold sweep of a woman's quill, a woman who had never borne a child or taken a man inside her body, a bastard queen, spawn of a lecherous Tudor king and a greedy woman who rotted in the fields behind the Tower of London.

I stared straight ahead, seeing much more of the kingdom of Tirconnaill than the mists allowed. Fog hung thick as smoke, shrouding trees, stables, thatched roofs, and castle turrets in a suffocating blanket of dreary gray. The only sound breaking the hushed stillness was the steady slap of ship's oars parting the waters of the River Eske in uniform precision, irrefutable evidence that with every groan of the mast all that was familiar and beloved slipped farther and farther away.

I narrowed my eyes, straining to catch a final glimpse of
Mainistir
Dhun
na
nGall
, the monastery below the castle on the left bank of the Eske where a century ago another O'Donnell chieftain had conceived the idea of
The
Annals
of
the
Four
Masters.
Unable to contain his excitement, this warrior king, known for his wisdom, his generosity, and his tolerance for spirits, commissioned Michael O'Leary, a Franciscan friar, to write the story of Eire. After nearly five years, forty centuries of Irish history, documented in painstaking detail, was scripted for all to see. Rory's story was there, and mine too.

Behind the monastery, flames licked at the mist, burning through the gray, leaving a sickening bile-colored glow. A desperate guttural sound escaped my throat. How could I leave it, my home, my children's' graves, the glorious memories of sun-steeped afternoons and those early years when Rory and I had loved with one mind and body? A strange burning rose beneath my eyelids. I fought against it. My vision blurred, and tears, harsh and long overdue, welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.

Without warning, strong arms pinned my cloak to my sides. Instinctively, I rested my head against my husband's shoulder, waiting for the feel of his lips against my throat. I shivered, allowing the familiar heat to claim me. If only I could have this for a while longer, until I was old and the fire within me had ebbed. I leaned into him, fitting my body to his.

He cursed and pulled away, breathing harshly. “By God, Nuala. Why do you torment me this way?”

I smiled bitterly. He wanted me still. At least there was that. Drawing a deep breath I faced him. He was thin, his skin dark and tight across the high bones of his cheeks. The hollows beneath were deeply shadowed, and the lines around his startling blue eyes spoke of worry and sleepless nights.

I lifted my chin. His suffering was no greater than mine. Five and thirty years was not old enough for a woman's life to be torn from her. I nodded in the direction of the castle from which we had come. “Why did you burn it?”

He turned to look at the leaping flames. His answer was bitter, defeated. “I want no English dog to claim my keep.”

When I did not speak, he turned to go. “My lord.” I hesitated. How many times had I made my request only to have him reject it? He stood tall and straight, his eyes once again on my face. “My lord,” I began again, “I ask your leave to go with my brother to France.”

“Why?”

“I am not well.”

Fear replaced the wariness in his eyes. He reached for me, but I backed away and leaned against the railing.

I shook my head. “Nay, 'tis not what you think. My body serves me well. 'Tis my soul that sickens. I am no longer a wife, Rory. You have put me away without a child to comfort me.”

The accusation was unfair. Even I knew it.

“I gave you nine bairns, Nuala. Even the church can expect no more of us.”

Simply, brutally, I meant to hurt him. “They died.”

He nodded. “Aye. No one is to blame. 'Tis sometimes the way.”

He was very much to blame as was every Irish lord who refused submission to Elizabeth. But I would not win him back by reminding him of what he already knew. “You have no heirs,” I said instead.

He refused to meet my eyes. “I have lost Tirconnaill. I have no need of heirs.”

“Liar.”

Furious, he looked up. “I know your mind, Nuala. But it will never be. I will not risk your life. You heard the physician. Another child will kill you.”

I looked down into the calm waters of the bay, counting the ripples from our wake. “I've heard of herbs—”

He refused to listen. “Nay. Holy church condemns it. I'll not have your death on my hands.”

“The choice should be mine.”

“Nuala! By the blood of Christ. This world holds nothing for me without you.”

“I want a child, Rory. Every woman wants a child.”

His hands tightened around the railing. “I need you. We will make our lives in Rome. I am the earl of Tirconnaill, a fighter, not a courtier.”

I knew how hard it was for him to beg. I would have stopped him, but he went on as if in opening his heart he must empty it. “If you will not stay for me, Nuala, stay for our people. The Romans will think us barbarians without you.”

Could this man I loved more than my own life be such a fool? “I am the daughter of Irish barbarians, Rory O'Donnell, no different from you. Your words are not what a woman would hear.”

His hands reached out to hold me. For a long moment he looked at me, saying nothing. What did he see, this man who knew my face better than he knew his own? Did he see me as I was, or did he remember the girl of years ago, the child bride with her laughing, berry-stained mouth, her thin, high-bridged nose and the carven, sharp-cheeked beauty of small bones under lightly freckled skin? Once, long ago, he claimed that the Madonna herself could not have been more lovely. What, now, did he see in the woman he'd wagered a kingdom for?

He spoke slowly, haltingly. “If it is words you need, Nuala, hear them now. Even before I saw you, I loved you. Tirconnaill was your bride price. After the betrayal of Chichester and Maguire, when I alone stood by your father, he asked my pardon for demanding my lineage. But know this. I would do no differently were he to ask again.”

There was more that needed saying, but I did not expect to hear it. Still, he spoke on.

“Do you know why I left you untouched for more than a year after our wedding?”

“You said I was too young for bedding and too small for bairns.”

He smiled. “Nay, love. That was pride, not truth. I feared that you would find me wanting, that I was not man enough for the daughter of
Aedh
Ruadh
O'Neill. Not until you demanded that I leave off my wenching and make you a wife did I come to you. It was past time. I burned for wanting you but still I was afraid. You welcomed me and that night I learned what it was to love.” His voice was hoarse and earnest. “Do not ask to leave me.”

Unchecked, the tears streamed down my face. I, Nuala, who never cried, turned away. “I want to feel our bodies joined in the act of love, Rory. I want a child. A woman is nothing without a child.”

Smothering an expletive, he released me. “Have mercy, Nuala. I love you. You are my wife, and I will have no hand in your murder.”

I grew weary of words. There was nothing left to say. I stood my ground, a slight, small-boned woman against the Lion of Ireland. “I will not bargain, Rory. You know my mind.”

I saw the rage unleash within him as if my words had been the key that unlocked the floodgates. “Do you threaten me, my lady?”

I refused to answer, refused to look away.

Reaching behind my head, he threaded his fingers through my hair. Under the flickering torchlight, I saw his eyes glitter with something dark and terrifying, something that had no place in the life we shared. I tried to move back, but he would not allow it. He twisted my hair around his fingers so that my head was held immobile.

“How much of this do you think I can take? Or is that your game, to wear me down until I break from the coldness you show me?”

I said nothing. He cursed again, using words he had never before spoken in my presence. I had pushed him too far, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of my husband.

“You win, Nuala. We shall play the game your way. If you want this, you shall have it.” He pulled me roughly against him. Lowering his head, he teased my mouth with the tip of his tongue.

I closed my eyes, waiting for his anger to dissipate, willing the husband I knew to return to me. His mouth was warm on my throat and his free hand roamed my body, settling on my breasts.

He lifted me into his arms, taking me down the darkness of a long hall and through the low-hung cabin door, where he dropped me on the bed and began shedding his clothes. A single candle burned on the mantel. I could barely make out his outline. I pulled off my dress and shoes and was struggling with my laces when he joined me in the bed. Without speaking, he tore the knots of my undergarments and threw them on the floor. Then he turned to me. “I ask you one last time, Nuala. I am no saint and will not turn back. Are you willing, knowing what the end will be?”

I trembled with anticipation and fear. This was my husband and yet he was not as I remembered. It had been years since we shared a bed. I had borne ten children and my body was no longer firm and supple. I had no wish to be compared to the woman I once was and found wanting. Still, I could not change the past. It was this or nothing. Resting my lips on his chest, I spoke against his skin. “I am willing, my lord, if you are.”

A harsh, wordless sound rose up from his throat. I touched his cheek. It was wet. Shocked, I sat up and peered at him through the darkness. Only once before had I witnessed my husband's tears. “There is no need to weep, my love.”

“Don't do this, Nuala,” he whispered. “Don't make me do this.”

With soothing hands, I stroked his brow, drying his cheeks with my hair. “Hush,” I murmured. My hands moved slowly, coaxingly, down his body. “We were made for this. There is no other way for us.”

His hands were still as skilled, his mouth as firm and tender as I remembered. He was immediately and powerfully erect and when he came inside me and our passion rose together, I knew that it was right and that Rory knew it too. Nothing mattered but this. Ireland would survive. Rory would survive and, when my time was at hand, there would be no regrets, for I would be with him always.

*

Belfast, 1995

Meghann looked at her watch impatiently and rolled down the window of her automobile. The prison swarmed with visitors and she'd waited for nearly thirty minutes in the queue to enter the gates. Armed RUC and British soldiers stood at the checkpoints screening all visitors as if each one had an explosive strapped to his shoe. It was nearly marching season in the north, that time of tension when Protestants celebrated the victory of William of Orange by marching through the streets of heavily populated Catholic areas, banging their drums and singing “God Save the Queen,” proclaiming their God-given right to control the territory.

After the Protestants marched, the Catholics rioted. Burned-out lorries and hijacked cars blocked every major motorway, and swarms of pierced and tattooed young people who cared nothing about nationalism, except as an excuse to vandalize the premises of hardworking families, prowled the deserted streets. It was always the same, this dreadful two weeks in July. The RUC forced the marches through and then brought out the batons to beat the inevitable looters.

She inched her car forward. A pleasant, round-faced young man with the bright yellow vest of the RUC poked his head in the window. “What is your business here, Miss?”

“Counsel for a prisoner.”

“May I see your papers, please.”

Meghann handed over her documents. The man perused each one carefully before allowing her to pass. She parked and locked the car. Hitching her briefcase over her shoulder, Meghann walked through the security detection device, submitted to the tentative frisking by a woman guard and was ushered into a room with a table, two chairs, and reinforced glass panels. Outside, three more guards stood at attention.

A man with a thick neck and meaty hands led Michael into the room, pushed him down into one of the chairs and uncuffed him. Meghann sat down across from Michael and waited until the guard left the room before speaking. “Are you all right? You look too thin and terribly pale.”