Irish Lady (7 page)

He remembered a certain Christmas Eve Mass when he'd stared at a stained-glass window with its depiction of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Something had flashed in his mind that he'd never thought of before. Meggie, with her halo-lit hair, her serene lovely face, and her slow, secretive smile was Mary of the New Testament. Mary, the quiet, long-suffering mother of Jesus and wife to Joseph who never complained, never spoke her mind and never lost her innocence.

“That was quite a speech,” he said quietly. “Too bad you've no desire for political office.”

She stared at him. “When did you become such an unfeeling bastard?”

It was the day he made love to her. She'd told him that she loved him and then, without a word, packed up and moved away. But he'd swing by the neck before telling her. “Not all men are drunks, Meghann,” he said instead.

“No, just Irish men.”

“Come now, Meggie, you're the one who drank the Guinness.”

“If that's supposed to be a stab at levity, it won't work.”

“Very well then,” he said. “Here's a fact for you. Poverty exists in London just as it does in the North.”

“I'm not talking about poverty,” she said stiffly, in control of herself once again. “I'm talking about desperation and futility.”

“You're exaggerating.”

She began clearing the dishes. “You forget that I speak from personal experience.”

“Why did you agree to stay here with me?”

“There was no one else we could trust. Your family would have been watched. There is no possibility of anyone connecting me with you.”

“You're far more sophisticated than anyone in my family, Meghann. Did you tell them of the risk you're taking? After all, I'm a fugitive. You could lose everything you've worked for as well as go to prison.”

She stared at him. Was this Michael Devlin talking? The boy who had risked his life to find her amid the death and rubble of Cupar Street? Had he any idea what his family meant to her? “That isn't likely to happen,” was all she said.

He stood up. “I'm tired. Come into the sitting room and read t' me until I fall asleep.”

Meghann pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with a soapy hand. “Is something the matter with your eyes?”

“Someone forgot t' tell me I was leavin' in a hurry. I left my reading glasses in the Maze.”

“I need to ask you some questions, Michael. This won't go away, and I can't stay forever.”

He brushed her protests away with a lift of his hand. “Not now. I feel like a novel. There's some good literature in the bookcase. How about it, Meggie?”

She sighed and turned back to the sink. “You go ahead. I'll be there as soon as I finish the dishes.”

After wiping dry the last bowl and stacking it in the cupboard, Meghann surveyed the bookshelf in the hallway. She was drawn to a small volume entitled
The History of Ulster
. Michael's derisive taunt about her ignorance hit very close to home, although she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of telling him so. By the time she walked into the living room he was asleep. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his forehead, but when she touched his cheek it was cold. Replenishing the fire had obviously taken up whatever reserves of energy he had. She tucked a throw around him, pulled her chair closer to the fire and stared into the flames.

The light was lovely, copper-tipped and black-centered, with the lines of deep royal blue so often seen with peat fuel, it was odd, really, the way she had no desire to do anything but stare into the center of that sweetly scented fire. Normally she wasn't the kind to waste a minute, but just now it felt right to do nothing but sit without thinking, mesmerized by the play and dance of light against the darkening walls. Her eyelids felt heavy and she was finally warm. Through spidery lashes she saw the flames leap and dance inside the brick hearth, taking one shape and then another. She smiled, involuntarily, her fingers moved to the gold circle resting at the base of her throat. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the chair.

She heard rain slant into the chimney. The fire sizzled, its black center swirling and melding into a feminine form, the copper borders framing a woman's face like braids of flame-red hair.

She stood beside Rory O'Donnell, a child-woman with eyes as clear as glass and a delicate mobile face that with every changing nuance spoke of Ireland.

*

Nuala O'Donnell, Tyrone, 1588

We faced my father together. I saw Rory swallow and step forward. He reached for my hand and whispered that we would see this through together.

Hugh O'Neill was a massively built man, with hair the same shocking red as my own. His neatly trimmed beard was a shade darker, with streaks of white, and his eyes were the hard, cold gray of the North Sea beneath a cloudy sky. He would be a formidable opponent in any mood, but now more so because he stood in the throes of a raging temper. I glanced at Rory and felt a surge of pride. He was not afraid of Red Hugh O'Neill.

“You dare come to me with this outrageous proposal!” my father roared, towering over me.

Rory stepped between us, braver than he was wise, for although the two men were the same height, the O'Neill was twice his girth.

“Who are you?” my father demanded.

“I am Rory O'Donnell of Tirconnaill, and I have come to wed your daughter.”

“'Tis time you came. You are her betrothed.”

From what little I knew of Rory, I had already guessed that diplomacy was not his strength. I sensed what he wished to say and with a few whispered words brought him all that he desired.

“The O'Neill is blessed in his daughters,” he began, struggling at first with the words of a courtier. “Gentle Kieran will serve you well with the holy sisters. Her prayers will surely reach the ears of our Lord when we unite against the English. 'Tis Nuala I would wed. Tirconnaill needs Nuala. She will bring kingdoms to our way of thinking.”

The O'Neill's bushy eyebrows drew together over his nose, and he glared at the two of us for a long time without blinking. “You have met before?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nay, my lord,” I said quickly, refusing to be the first to look away.

He stroked his beard and motioned Rory to a chair beside his own. “You would wed this wild piece?” he asked, gesturing toward me.

“I would.”

He stared at Rory, missing nothing. Lowering his voice, he spoke. “She is young and you are burly. Fourteen summers is too young for bearing.”

Rory nodded. “Aye.”

“If I agree to your troth, you will not bed her until the spring.”

“Until next summer, if you wish.”

Red Hugh nodded. “The English queen is my enemy. She seeks to join my lands with her own.”

“Aye, mine as well.”

“Swear that you'll bring the might of Tirconnaill against her if I ask it.”

“I swear.”

My father held out his hand and Rory grasped it. “You may have my daughter, O'Donnell,” he shouted for the entire hall to hear. “The wedding will take place in a fortnight.”

“My father is ill,” Rory protested. “I cannot be away so long, and I had hoped to take Nuala with me when I return.”

The O'Neill weighed his words for a long time. “So be it,” he said at last and motioned to my mother, cool and silent, standing behind him. “What say you, Agnes? 'Tis our Nuala who will wed the O'Donnell and Kieran who will be the nun.”

Her soft musical laugh charmed everyone. I saw that Rory was already bewitched by her.

“I say, 'tis better than the other way around.” She kissed Rory on both cheeks. “Welcome to Tyrone, my lord.”

***

“Nuala, wake up.” Kieran's cool hands touched my face.

“What is it?” I grumbled. “Surely 'tis the middle of the night, Kieran, and no time for conversation.”

“I must know. Did you do it for me? Before God, much as I wish to devote my life to Christ, I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice. You are so young, Nuala, and so very small. The man is a giant.”

I struggled into wakefulness, rubbing my eyes and pushing back my hair.

“Please tell me, little sister. Is this truly your wish?”

I stared at her, her features gaunt with worry in the dim light of the candle she carried. Was she blind that she couldn't see the manner of man she had given up? Perhaps she truly was called to God. I smiled. “I am doubly grateful for your calling, sister. Because of my nature, I shall need all of your prayers. And it is I who should thank you for Rory O'Donnell. He suits me well.”

“Truly, Nuala?” Tears gathered in the corners of Kieran's dove-gray eyes.

“Truly.”

Her breath came out in a small rush of air. “God be praised.” She raised her eyes to my face. “The wedding is tomorrow, and tomorrow night—” She shuddered. “Aren't you afraid, Nuala?”

I thought back to the strange trembling that began in my stomach when Rory kissed me. “Nay,” I said truthfully, pulling my nightshift tight against my body. “I only hope that I please him. As you say, I am small.”

“But beautiful,” Kieran protested fiercely. “The most beautiful lass in Tyrone.”

“You are my sister, Kieran. Your sight is colored with affection.”

“The bards sing of you, Nuala. You know what they say.”

She spoke the truth, and I suppose it could be said that I was unusual in my appearance. Not many were blessed with white, even teeth and unmarked skin, except for the freckles on my nose and cheeks. Red hair was common in Tyrone, but more often it came wiry and coarse, twisting into tendrils even when pulled back into a tight plait. Mine was thick and straight and very fine with a dozen hues of red from darkest claret to the lightest copper. Yes, I was fortunate in my hair and in my eyes, clear and green as Irish grass. Perhaps it was enough and I would not need full breasts and rounded hips to keep Rory O'Donnell in my bed. I prayed it might be so.

I felt Kieran's soft kiss on my cheek. “Good night, my love.”

“Good night, Kieran.”

Nuala O'Donnell, Tyrone, 1588

We were wed by the parish priest. There was no time for the cardinal to make the journey from Armagh to Tyrone. The day was long. Wine and ale and fiery spirits that burned a path to the belly flowed freely within the castle walls. By night, men and women alike lay on the rushes, stretched out among the dogs in drunken stupors.

I had eaten and drunk very little, my concentration centered on the man who was now my husband. He sat by my side at the banquet table, sharing my trencher, eating a bit more than I but drinking little. It pleased me that he had little appetite for spirits. It was nearly time to retire, and a strange breathlessness knotted my stomach. Perhaps I was just the tiniest bit afraid.

From across the room my mother signaled and left the room. I rose and the hall resounded with applause. Rory stood and slipped his arm about my waist. Kieran lifted my train and screamed at me to run. Out the door I ran and down the long hallway, followed by a dozen shouting women and half the men in the banquet hall, up the stairs to the landing and then up again, down another hall to the room that was to be my bridal suite. My mother slammed and bolted the door behind Kieran and me. We leaned, panting, against the door.

“Make haste,” my mother said, loosening the ties at my neck and lifting the wedding gown over my head. I would have lifted off the shift, but she shook her head and folded back the bedclothes to remove the warming pans. “There is no need. Wait for your husband in here.”

I climbed into the high, curtain-shrouded bed and leaned back against the pillows. The sheets were warm. Candles of the finest wax flickered on small tables, and a flask of wine with two goblets waited on a chest at the foot of the bed. A fire burned cheerily in the brick hearth, and the smell of sandalwood perfumed the air. I shivered with anticipation. Tonight I would learn what it meant to be a woman.

Laughter and ribaldry sounded from the hall and someone pounded loudly at the door. With a quick kiss on both cheeks, Mother and Kieran lifted the bolt and stepped out, then my husband stepped inside. I sat up and watched as he closed the door and walked across the room to the bed.

“Hello,” he said softly, touching my cheek with the back of his hand.

I could feel the tickle of fine hair that grew from his skin. “Hello,” I answered.

Turning, he lifted the flask and poured two glasses of wine. Drinking his own in a single gulp, he offered the other to me. I shook my head, and he drank mine as well. First he removed his shoes and then his tunic. My throat went dry. I had never seen a naked man before, but even I knew this one was extraordinarily well formed. He blew out the candles. After a long moment I felt one side of the bed give and then I felt his body, naked as the day he was born, warm against my own. I could scarcely breathe, so great was my excitement. I wanted to touch him but did not, fearing he would think me immodest.

His lips were warm against my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, and uncovered shoulders. When at last they settled on my mouth, I couldn't help the moan that came from deep inside my throat and my arms reached out to pull him closer.

I know not what I did to displease him but the instant I melted against him and my body felt as one with his, I heard his strangled cry and felt strong hands push me away from his warmth to the cold side of the bed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, as if he had run a great distance. So great was my shame that even tears eluded me. Hours later, when I was sure he slept, I closed my burning eyes until morning.

Even before I was fully conscious, I felt his eyes upon me. Somewhere in the night his body had once again moved close to mine. I could no more stop the red from staining my throat and cheeks than I could stop the sun from shining down on County Tyrone. It appeared that Kieran was wrong, and my doubts had been well founded. Red hair and green eyes did not make up for those other womanly traits I so obviously lacked.

The night had been a long one. I had never slept beside a man before and wondered if they all tossed and turned, grumbling and cursing the night through as Rory had.

Finally I managed to sleep for a few brief hours but woke again when I felt his eyes upon me. I felt the color rise in my face even before I opened my eyes. He was awake, staring at me, and I was very conscious of his body pressed against mine.

“Was your sleep pleasant?” he asked.

“It was,” I lied. “And yours?”

“I slept well.”

It occurred to me to ask why he lied when I remembered that I had as well. “When do we leave for Tirconnaill?” I asked instead.

He leaned close to me and breathed deeply. “After Mass. Your hair smells like sunlight.”

I pushed the red weight of it away from my face and sat up. “Tell me again of your family.”

He pulled me against his chest and settled back against the pillows. “There is only my father at Dun na Ghal. His health is poor and he rarely leaves his chambers.” My hand moved across his bare chest. He kissed the top of my head and then lifted my chin and kissed my mouth, pulling away quickly. “You tempt me to take more than I should, lass.”

I summoned my courage and asked the question that burned in my head. “Are all wedding nights like ours?”

He reddened. “Nay.”

“How are they different?”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Rory? Have you heard me?”

“By the beard of Christ! Where has your mother been? I cannot speak of such matters to a girl who is not yet a woman.”

“I cannot see how what happens on our wedding night concerns my mother. You are my husband, Rory. Who better than you to tell me?”

He was silent for a long time. I could feel the demons of logic and pride warring within him. Finally he cleared his throat. “A wedding night is when a husband takes his wife's maidenhood,” he said stiffly. “Their bodies become one.” He shifted me in his arms to better see my face. “Do you know what I speak of, Nuala? Surely you have seen animals.”

I nodded and saw that the color had faded from his cheeks.

“Words do not come easily to me,” he confessed.

I sat up and looked directly at him. “Do you find me distasteful, Rory O'Donnell?”

His eyebrows flew together. “Nay, lass. Why would you ask such a question?”

“Why did you not take my maidenhood?”

There was nothing wrong with my understanding. Written in the twin flames of his eyes was regret.

Slowly, carefully, as if I were made of delicate porcelain, he reached out to trace my brows, the thin bridge of my nose, my lips, and the sharp lines of my cheeks and chin.

“The Blessed Virgin herself could not have been lovelier than you are to me, Nuala,” he whispered. “'Tis not for lack of wanting that I keep myself from you.”

“Then why—”

His fingers brushed across my mouth. “You are too young for bearing. Too many are wed one year and dead the next. I would have it go differently for you.”

A warm glow spread through my breast. “Truly, Rory? Is that your reason?”

He laughed and pulled me close. “Truly, Nuala.”

I leaned into his lips. After all, there was no harm in kissing.

***

Meghann woke to the tapping of a tree branch against the windowpane. She had never dreamed this way before, so clearly and in chronological segments, as if she were viewing a film. She turned toward Michael and found him staring at her. Disconcerted, she behaved as if it were perfectly natural to wake and find a man's eyes upon her. “Have you been awake long?”

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

She set the book on the table beside her and folded her hands in her lap. “I'd like to ask you some questions, Michael.”

He reached over and picked up the history book. “Were y' looking for something in particular?”

She hadn't intended to tell him. The words just popped out. “I wanted some information on Nuala O'Donnell.”

He smiled and ran his thin, long-fingered hands tenderly over the book cover. “Nuala, lady of legend.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Nuala O'Donnell is an Irish legend. She kept Ulster out of English hands for fourteen years, long after everyone else had surrendered t' Elizabeth Tudor.”

“What happened to her?”

“After the Battle of Kinsale and the importation of Protestants into the North, she and her husband escaped t' Italy. I believe she died there.”

“Did she live in Donegal?”

“Aye. She was Rory O'Donnell's countess, and he was the last Catholic earl of Tirconnaill.”

“Was the marriage a happy one?”

Michael shrugged. “Most noble marriages of the time were political matches. There is no evidence t' suggest that theirs was different.”

He grinned and Meghann felt the stirring deep within her. It came whenever Michael unleashed the charm that had once been her undoing.

“They had nine children,” he said. “I suppose they felt some affection for each other.”

Meghann was instantly suspicious. “Are you making this up?”

“Not a bit of it.”

She looked skeptical. “It's strange the way you know so much about whatever it is I ask about.”

He looked surprised. “I told you. I know Irish history.”

“Your education was certainly better than mine,” she observed thoughtfully. “We learned next to nothing about Ireland.”

“I didn't learn it in school, Meggie. All Irish prisoners of war learn their history in prison. It's what we do t' pass the time. While the Brits are learning about computers or electronics, we're learning the stories of our people along with a healthy dose of political science. It's what keeps us goin'. It's why they won't let us on their networks. The BBC knows that we can debate our cause with the best English minds and win.”

Meghann wrinkled her brow. “When I saw you in the Maze you were isolated. How could you possibly conduct classes?”

“Through the walls,” he said deliberately. “We shout the words through the pipes and memorize them.”

These men were her countrymen. Men like her father, her grandfather, and her brothers. Meghann didn't know why she felt the sudden, overwhelming surge of pride flare up inside her chest or why the tears burned beneath her eyelids. She only knew she had to turn away, change the subject, leave the room, something, anything, so that he wouldn't see just how deeply his words had affected her. “Tell me about Nuala O'Donnell,” she said, wiping her eyes before she turned back to face him.

Michael was a born storyteller. It was so much a part of him that Meghann wondered how she could have forgotten. The timber of his voice was wonderful, clear and beautifully pitched, and he knew just how to expand a moment. She could have listened to him forever, forgetting London, her work, her life, the reason why they were there, the two of them, in this isolated cabin on the edge of the Irish Sea with its lovely wood floors and tasteful pictures of shorelines and seabirds, of men with cable-knit sweaters and sunburned faces running with Irish rain.

He began slowly, warming to his subject just as the last rays of waning light left the darkening sky. Firelight played on his face, highlighting the bones, shadowing the hollows beneath, picking out the length of his chiseled nose, the squared-off substantial chin, the mobile, beautifully formed mouth from which the words, always the words, intense and lyrical, rose up and poured out, sliding off his tongue as if there were a deep wellspring somewhere within him and a dam had broken.

“Legend says she was the light of Tyrone until Rory O'Donnell made her his wife and brought her home to Donegal. She kept the faith even when Niall Garv, her husband's cousin, held her captive in her own castle. She starved along with her people when the blight of sixteen hundred destroyed the potatoes. And she was the reason the English queen found no toehold in the north of Ireland.”

Meghann closed her eyes and gave herself up to the magical quality of his story and the images his words evoked. She felt heat from the fire and mist on her cheeks, and behind her eyelids colors leaped and danced and settled until everything was once again completely clear.

*

Nuala O'Donnell, Tirconnaill, 1589

At first glimpse, Tirconnaill seemed much the same as Tyrone, wilder perhaps and a bit more primitive, but not so different that one would think longingly of home. I was not at all homesick. There was too much to do.

Dun Na Ghal Castle stood, a stark sentinel, gray and forbidding, in its place on the River Eske. Rain seeped through the mortar and collected in muddy pools beneath the rushes. Walls wept with the wet, and rats scurried in dark corners. The only warmth to be found was on the top floor, where everyone, nobles, soldiers, and servants, slept on flea-ridden rushes before enormous fires. In truth it was a somber place and would take more than a cursory scrubbing. I forgot about Rory and went about the task of setting it right.

'Twas nearly a year before I could look around with pride at whitewashed walls and sweetly scented rushes covering the Great Hall floor. Finally the rooms were dry, woven tapestries kept out the drafts and jewel-bright carpets, pleasing to eyes hungry for color, warmed cold feet. Plate and silver filled the pantry, bedchambers were furnished, and the larder well stocked.

When the domestic work was done, I took a moment's breath to look up from my chores and saw the frightening chain of events that had transpired in Tirconnaill, events that would set Rory and me on a journey that could end in only one way.

I was the countess of Tirconnaill, a married woman bound to Rory O'Donnell by ties that could be severed only by God. It never occurred to me that Rory would take our vows less seriously than. I. He was a wonderful companion and very discreet. I had just passed my fifteenth year when I learned that marriage meant something different for him than it did for me.