Chapter Ten
Patience
Neave, October 3-7, 1564, Ulster, Ireland · Siena, June 27, 2011, Washington, D.C
On that dark day madeof resurrected night terrors, Benburb’s swiftest messenger was sent to halt Aedan’s trip to London. He returned drenched and winded to announce the chieftain was riding back faster than the wind.
For an eternity, I stood at the window, eyes sightless with unshed tears, lips trembling with unuttered screams.
Aedan arrived sooner than I could have hoped—back erect and jaw set, but gaze wild and uncertain.
“My Neave...I’ll find him. My Neave...are you unharmed, a mhuirnín? My Neave...don’t fret...I’ll bring him home.”
His words, his arms. Apologetic, gentle, useless.
Then, a long, black night. The longest of my life. The unspeakable horror of a small, defenseless boy alone with the monster. And a distant hope, like a bobbing sail in the stormy ocean—might he spare Ronan for thinking him his son?
Men dispatched to every corner of the Earth, messengers with parchments bearing the likenesses of my child and the beast who took him. Generous rewards. Ominous threats. Another night, thick with ghosts and nightmares, with Aedan’s futile words. To the Tudors he wished to go!
A new day, and an anglophile—a filthy Irishman from the Pale with a message that was even filthier. Yet it was the brightest gift.
Another dreadful, sleepless night. Then Aedan, Kian, Fillan—all of them—leaving for the Pale, accompanied by two dozen gallowglasses. Bearing not a single English pound.
I’d pleaded with Aedan to let me come along, but he’d not hear of it.
How could I win this battle?
“Patience,” said Mórrígan.
My eyes, blind with weeping, dark with shadows. My lips at Aedan’s ear as he mounted his steed. Bring our son home— Then, a stifled breath. And deliver Würger to me—alive.
I would win this battle at last. With my own hands I would remove his filthy appendage. With my own scian I would slit his thick throat. With my own eyes I would watch him take his last putrid breath.
Then, waiting.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Pacing up and down the empty great hall. Standing outside in the driving rain, in the biting wind, taking neither food nor drink. Searching the distance for the riders.
Peering. Peering. Peering.
I spied a rider when I could peer no more—a great bay stallion carrying the only man who could bring back my son. Our son. His large frame dwarfed the little boy he cradled in one arm.
I must have run to him. My feet must have sunk in the mud. The rain must have lashed my face, blinded my sight.
“Mama!” The steed came to a halt. Strong arms deposited my child into my quavering embrace. “Do not weep, mama—I’m home!”
I carried the heavy, sturdy bundle through the rain, through the mud, to the staircase, to my bedchamber. Then, I lay down my precious child and curled round him. I drew him into me so tight, he yelped.
He smelled of woodsmoke, earth, and something terrifyingly foreign.
“Are you hurt, a leanbh?” My voice came from elsewhere, thin and trembling.
And a small voice answered, calm and reassuring—an echo of his father’s, “I’m not, mama.”
“Are you certain, my wee love?” I swallowed my terror. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
A warm little hand stroked mine. “As certain as I’m here with you. He dared not harm Lord Ronan O’Neal.”
I collected myself. “Are you hungry, then?”
He considered the question. “He fed me rabbit and quail. I’m more sleepy than hungry.”
I tucked in the quilt round him. “Sleep, then, a leanbh.”
I’d weep once he slept.
My son yawned and stretched, then turned his sweet, innocent face toward me. “What’s a whore, mama?”
Would it scare him badly if I screamed?
“What did he say to you?” I smoothed his hair, my breath coming fast as a hammer in my chest.
“He said all women are whores, and I said you’re not a whore.” He scrunched his forehead. “He agreed at first but then called you a whore when he was mad at me. Are you a whore?”
I dug my fingernails into my palms. “A whore is a woman who lies with men for coin.” I schooled my face to calm. “Most women aren’t whores, a leanbh. Mind each you know—your grandame, your aunts, our servant women, me—none are whores.”
He pursed his lips and nodded.
“Where did he take you?” My face felt so tight—another moment, and it would shatter into bits.
“We slept in the wood. And he killed kittens, and he wanted me to kill them, too, but I didn’t, and—oh, I nearly forgot! I saved Cathaí.” He sat up and produced from his coat a wee tabby kitten with squinting green eyes. “He’ll be hungry, I reckon.”
A dish of milk was brought shortly, along with warm wheat rolls and honey.
Ronan studied his roll with a small frown. “Is that man my da?”
My breezy smile had cost me a year of my life. “He is mad, isn’t he, my wee love?” I hugged myself. “Your da is the Prince of Ulster, and you are Lord Ronan mac Aedan O’Neal.”
When Aedan entered the bedchamber, Ronan lay in deep slumber, and I’d grown calm. Calm and ready as I’d ever be.
I lifted my head, careful not to wake my sleeping child. My hand wouldn’t shake when I’d geld him. My eye wouldn’t blink when I’d cut his throat right after.
Aedan didn’t meet my gaze as he put down a sack with something round inside.
I stared at it, heart racing like a wild horse, skin burning away from bone and sinew. How dared you?
“Is he awaiting me, my Aedan?” I forced out through clenched teeth.
His neck muscles bulged tight as ropes as he straightened, still and mute. Wordless, he went to the bed and lay down beside me—road worn and smelling of horse and fatigue, our small son between us. Then, he pressed his lips to Ronan’s golden head and shut his eyes.
I tightened my fists, trembling all over. “What’s in the sack, my Aedan?”
“He took his worthless life before I could capture him.” He locked his gaze on me. “I bring you his head, my Neave.”
I held Aedan’s gaze, swallowing the bitter taste of my defeat, acknowledging the unspoken avowal of his new debt.
“I’ll take this battle with me to the afterlife, and I’ll win it,” I whispered half to Aedan, half to Mórrígan, but mostly to myself.
***
It was dawn in D.C. when I opened my eyes—breath held, heart thudding. Somewhere in that liminal space between the vision and the waking, I’d been come upon—a bodyless visitation, a voice that spoke two words from the great beyond:
You won.
With icy hands, I grabbed my phone and tapped the search engine. The news article was dated June 23, 2011—four days ago.
Convicted serial killer, Kenneth Worgen, dies in prison at 45.
The man known as one of the most sadistic serial killers in U.S. history, died Thursday at the high-security prison ADX Florence, officials said.
Kenneth Worgen, who succumbed to cancer soon after his incarceration, was serving multiple life sentences for twelve counts of murder—
I called Ryan.
“Are you at work?” My voice came through low and hoarse.
“Not yet—” His words were accompanied by the jingling of the keys. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you know,” I breathed, “that he’d...passed?”
The jingling stopped.
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Sie—”
“Cancer?” I clenched my jaw, sick to my stomach. “What kind?”
I bit the inside of my lip to stop it from trembling when Ryan didn’t answer.
“I can take it,” I choked out. But I knew the answer—knew it in my bones.
He released a long, resigned breath. “Testicular.”
The room swayed. I swallowed bile.
“He’d had it before...all that, Sie—undiagnosed.”
“But I’d made it worse—”
“No—” Ryan switched to video. He stood outside his apartment in suit and tie, neck muscles tight as ropes, eyes locked on mine. “You won the battle, love.”
My body felt weightless as I stepped into the shower. The hot stream of water rinsed out my tears as I scrubbed away the past, as I anointed myself for the present. With every stroke of my loofah, the future shimmered happier and brighter: an easy mural with a hefty paycheck, then a move to Dallas to reunite with my love.
Nothing could be easier now, for I won.