Chapter Fourteen
The Aphelion
Neave, January 14, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
The only proof thatAedan lived was that none of his gallowglasses had returned. Surely, they’d not linger in London had he no longer commanded them. And yet, why didn’t we receive word for three long months? Why had all our letters gone unanswered?
There were no answers to be had, so time dragged, slow and interminable—a fog of unceasing dread and unrelenting nightmares.
As was agreed upon Aedan’s leaving, Kian had assumed the chieftain’s duties in his absence. But all knew he was but a deputy, and demands for a new election grew louder every day. Hence, everyone stood in uneasy silence when an Irishman in service of the Tudor queen arrived at Benburb.
His restless gaze swept our small crowd. “A missive for Lady Neave McConway.”
I fixed the fool with a cold glare before replying, “For Lady Neave O’Neal.”
The man shrugged and handed me the parchment. Then, he walked out without so much as by your leave.
With trembling fingers, I broke Aedan’s seal—an imprint of a right hand. He yet lived. Shimmering tingles, warm and dizzying, rushed through me at the sight of his precise handwriting.
His English handwriting.
To Lady Neave McConway:
I blinked, my heartbeat dull and sluggish inside my chest.
By reason of the most superlative council of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the First of Her Name, as well as Her most distinguished advisers, I have come to view my marriage to you, a daughter of my vassal, as neither natural nor prudent. This dispatch, therefore, is to apprize you this marriage is hereby proclaimed dissolved in accordance with Ireland’s legal codes of Cáin Lánamna, and my divorce from you is rendered legal and final.
The air grew dense and hot. I lifted my head, chest tight as a drum. A blur of faces—pale and drawn. Anxious. Questioning.
“Lady Neave—”
Yet there was more to read.
As you are no longer my wedded wife and have no claim to my person nor property, excepting such as was agreed upon as your bride-price and, thereby, shall be returned to you, I hereby request that you haste to gather your children, as well as such items and servants as belonging to you, and depart my domain outright. It is my sincerest wish that you will have removed your presence by the time I return from London with my lawful wife, The Right Honorable Countess of Worcester, to whom I am wedded for the sake of peace between England and Ulster and as becomes a nobleman in my new standing.
Everything—the floor, the walls, the air—fell away. Only this parchment in my hand remained.
Chimeric. Foretold.
Somewhere deep down, I knew I stood very still, calm, and mute, my eyes fixed on Aedan’s precise English hand. But I also hovered above, crumbling into bleeding bits. Watching my life’s blood drain out of me and wash the world in crimson, drop by drop by drop—
Kian said something, his voice familiar, ordinary. It cannot be. I shifted my gaze to the broken seal. An English forgery to foment strife. A cruel trickery to break our spirit. But there was yet a paragraph unread—
As I shall be returning soon after you take delivery of this dispatch, I trust that as my loyal subject, you will abide my expressed demand in the proper and expeditious fashion commensurate with the sensitivity of this matter. As well, it is my uttermost wish that you will, hitherto, regard me solely as your rightful ruler, and as such, would not seek my audience in any unseemly or unsuitable manner. Furthermore, shall you find yourself in my presence, I rely on your good sense and proper decorum to act toward me with such deference and regard as befits my rank.
Earl II of Tyrone, Lord Aedan O’Neal
This 5th Day of January, 1565
The hall swayed. The parchment slipped from my fingers. His handwriting. His name. His signature. What forgery?
Kian steadied me with his hands on my shoulders, eyes frozen with horror.
He bent to take the parchment, pinching it between his thumb and index finger like it was something vile to touch. Like it would sully anyone mad enough to lay a hand on it.
“Is...is h-he...dead?”
The dais stood wrapped in saffron and gold, awaiting the O’Neal’s return.
I came back to myself. My eyes burned with salt. My throat chafed with sand. My heart burst into icy, piercing shards. How determined he was to go to London, how callous to slam our chamber door. How I waited, waited, waited while he—
I pointed to the parchment between Kian’s fingers. He still gripped my shoulder with his free hand. Slowly, he removed it. Then, he read. Unblinking at first, then unflinching.
“The O’Neal is alive and well and presently on his way to Ulster,” he addressed the gathering in a hoarse voice. “Lady Neave is unwell and wishes to be excused. I will see her to her bedchamber.”
His gaze raked my face, wide and bright, as he handed me the parchment. It scalded my fingers, but I rolled it up and stuffed it into my belt.
He locked his arm with mine, jerking me so hard toward the stairway, I staggered. “Come, m’lady.”
I’d never seen this look on him when he bolted the door—raw and primal, like a mask ripped off. I drew back. Why did he bolt the door? The same one his brother had slammed.
“Hear me now, Lady Neave.” He stepped so near, his breath touched my skin, fast and feverish. “Those are not...not his words. That is not what he wishes.” His face contorted, like the effort of speaking hurt him. He pulled in his breath. “He...he’d not write such filth did he not have a blade at his throat.”
My jewel-encrusted ivory hairbrushes lay scattered on my dressing table. Aedan gave them to me upon Aine’s birth. A precious gift for a precious daughter. And for a son. I peered at Kian, the chamber spinning, spinning. Had I gone mad? Had he? Was I dreaming?
Kian clenched his fists at his sides, eyes boring into mine, dark and frantic.
“God help me—” He dug his hands into my waist, crushed me against the wall. A woman unwed. Not widowed. Cast aside. Discarded.
“Don’t leave, Neave...” he breathed into my face. Lust and whiskey. Sourness of betrayal. “He’d not want that.”
I laughed without meaning to. A shrill, perverse sound, like in the leper wood.
“D’you think me...daft?” I squeezed out through fits of frenzied guffawing, frantic gasping, my chest heaving against his. “The letter is written in his hand...sealed with his seal. Leave me be...”
Tears rolled down my cheeks, fell between us, but I couldn’t stop laughing.
Kian gulped, muttered an oath. “Don’t...” He wrapped his arms round me, crushing me in a feverish hug. “Don’t, Neave...a mhuirnín. Wed me...”
His words came forth in a breathless whisper, fast and hot. Ill-timed self-indulgence. Unbridled folly.
“I’ll be a good husband to you and a loving father to your children. I’ll cover the very ground you walk with kisses. I’ll not touch the drink. I’ll not need it if I have you, a mhuirnín. I’ve a castle in Feddan and a good number of cattle. We can leave now and ride to the chapel. Leave and never look back.”
I wrenched myself from his inept embrace. Soundless. Sightless. All his stumbling words, averted glances, flushed cheeks, affected distaste flew back at me in a sickening recall.
I swallowed bile. Kian didn’t loathe me—he loved me. Kian loved me. Not Aedan.
He drew back, carved his pale hair. And at that simple, familiar gesture, the remaining pieces of my heart burst into bits so small, I’d never put them together again.
“Don’t weep, Neave. Wed me.”
His hands were on me again, digging into my back, sliding down. A man taken with an incurable affliction, trembling with thirst that could never be slaked.
“Leave me, Lord Kian—” I pushed him away. “Leave me before you do something you’ll regret.”
He drew me closer. Then, his lips were on mine, hot and desperate, his tongue failing to invade my unwilling mouth, his hands raking my numb body.
“The Lord is my witness, I’d never regret this,” he breathed into my locked lips. “But I’ll not take you against your will... You’re a woman unwed now, Neave, so...wed me proper. Wed me, so you can be mine.”
I slapped him hard on his burning cheek. “You’ve quite overstayed your welcome, Lord Kian.”
His eyes blazed with wild, shattered fire as he released me.
He scrubbed both hands over his face, stared at the floor. “You could have been mine. You ought’ve been mine.” He lifted his head, unseeing. “But I’m a damn oaf. I burned to ask for your hand all those years back when Aedan was naught but Manus’ foster son. And like a fool, I went to him to seek blessing.” He gave a bitter scoff. “I’d gotten pummeled by my brother before, but he near to ended me then. Left me bleeding with a broken rib and swore to kill me if I mentioned it again.”
I turned away from Kian’s crumbling face. Aedan’s white léine lay slung over a chair. I wore it to bed last night, sick with longing for him.
“I loved you, Neave. I love you still. I cannot stop.”
Kian’s words forced me to look at him. He was falling to pieces, too. The two of us falling to pieces, but not for each other.
“The way you come to me in my dreams, lass, warm and willing... You haunt my nights. The day we rescued you from the leper wood, and you rode in my arms bruised and half-alive was the happiest of my life.”
I stilled myself as one does when confronted with madness. “What would your brother say if he saw you now, Lord Kian?” I choked out, affecting not to notice the wetness on his cheeks. “Would he bless your incestual union with the mother of his children?”
He froze. Wiped at his face. “Christ help me... There is a special place in hell for miserable wretches like me, Lady Neave.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Put my foolishness out of your mind and...” He parted his lips, but nothing came out. “And that vile English missive, too,” he squeezed out, wincing. “Remain here and await his return. May the Lord take my sight if I’m untrue. No man has ever loved a woman the way Aedan loves you.” He dropped his gaze, his body closing in on itself. “He wishes not for your departure. Those are not his words.”
Abruptly, he turned and marched out.
I sank down on a chair before the hearth. A flicker of hope fluttered inside. Aedan had been forced to write this filth. Coerced by the Tudor queen. My eyes fell upon my Claddagh ring. But how to account for his—I grasped a handful of my hair and pulled, stifling a yelp—his marriage? I pulled harder, ignoring the pain.
I hereby request that you haste to gather your children.
Your. Children. The flicker died. No force in this world, dead or alive, could make him write such obscenity. And no force had. For he wrote it himself. For despite what I’d been telling myself all these years, the most precious and cherished person in Aedan O’Neal’s life was Aedan O’Neal. And despite what he’d been telling me all this time, his plans and ambitions always trumped all else. Whether it was Ireland or me.
Thatwas the reason for his trip all along. The apple falls not far from the tree. It wasn’t policy or peacemaking as he’d professed. It was his ambition for the Earl’s title he no doubt deemed his birthright even if he never gave it voice. The wee game he’d played with the queen—pushing and pulling, demanding an outrageous sum for his visit, conducting raids and blaming them on unknown forces. He’d been laying the groundwork, grooming her for giving him what he’d been after all along.
A woman she might be, but d’you fancy that’s the sort of visit I’ve in mind?
The pain, as I yanked on my strands, nearly blinded me. Not a measure but the whole truth in that jest. It was precisely the sort of visit he’d had in mind—only not for the queen. For a proper English wife he’d gone to England. For a proper wife and a lavish title. He’d fancied me so long as I satisfied his needs, but his needs grew, and I was no longer satisfactory. So he slammed the door in my face and cast me aside.
I stood, swaying, on the verge of retching. If I stuck my hand into the fire, would it consume the pain tearing me apart from within?
My offering, Brigid—The flame licked my finger, and I gasped and shrank back, cradling my burned flesh in my hand. He knew what this letter would do to me, and he wrote it, and sent it.
I dropped into my chair, staring at the dying flames. I’d fooled myself long enough—I’d been but a stepping-stone for his advancement. A pebble he’d kicked out of his way. All that nonsense people whispered about me: dazzling in appearance, versed in several tongues, a gifted artist, an accomplished equestrian. I’d been a wife who gave a young chieftain tactical advantage, an adornment to bolster his rule. But my usefulness had run its course. And so, I was to act toward him with such deference and regard as befits his rank—shall I find myself in his presence.
Outside, the rain fell down, down, down. A wall of water washing the world clean of everything that ever was. I rose and stumbled to the window. The chamber grew dark and cold, but I didn’t stir.
A knock on the door and the wails of my babe brought me back to myself.
“Come in.”
“The child is hungry,” Betha whispered, gaze on the floor. She knew. Everyone knew.
Wee Aine fussed and whimpered, clamping down and flailing her arms. But she’d find no nourishment from me. I took her off my empty breast and handed her to the frightened Betha.
“Find a wet nurse,” I said. “Or give her warm goat milk mixed with boiled water. I’ll not suckle her tonight.”
I returned to my chair as Betha closed my chamber door. His chair. His chamber door. The last of the flames licked the logs. Burning, burning, burning. Reducing the shattered pieces of my heart to ash.
A soft knock on the door disturbed the icy stillness. But I wanted no visitors, so I went back to the window. The cool orb of the full moon had reached its zenith—it was midnight.
The door opened, revealing Maura wrapped in her woolen shawl.
“Neave...” She stopped feet away, pale and shaky. If she looked so, how did I?
Wordless, she stepped closer and circled her arms round me.
The floodgate burst. The tears and the wails erupted in an unceasing, noisy stream. Mournful. Pitiful. Futile.
She held me tight, a small but firm buttress against the collapsing world. “Hush, a dhlúthchara, hush. Men are beasts—they only take. And he’s the worst of the lot.”
My Aedan. How could he be? The filth in the form of the parchment scorched my skin through my gown. He could be. He was. I wrapped my arms round my dear friend and placed my head on her slim shoulder.
“They come and go, like rain, but the women in our lives endure. It is women we turn to in our hour of need. Women never leave for another, for we’re gracious and loyal. Would that I awakened one day to find the whole lot of them bloody bastards gone from the world.” She stroked my hair. “Let us sit, a dhlúthchara. No use in standing by this cold window, is there?”
Maura took my hand in hers, walked me to the bed, and sat me down like a small child.
“I’ll help you pack on the morrow and see to it that you get home safe before the blasted English countess gets here.”
I went still at the finality of her words, flinched at the notion of leaving. A spurned, discarded woman, ordered to depart, and complying in haste.
“Lord Kian says I ought to stay,” I whispered, shielding the collapsing pieces of me with stiff arms. “That he...he’d been made to write it under duress.”
Maura stared ahead, then blew out a breath and hugged me again. “What do men know of each other’s hearts? Would you that he and that gall of his witnessed your shame?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, falling on Maura’s shawl.
Soft and gentle, Maura kissed each of my eyes. Her breath smelled queerly of whiskey, which she abhorred. How affected she must have been.
“My dearest Maura,” I choked out. “How grateful I am for your love, a chara.”
She trained her gaze on mine, wide and keen. “Your father worships the ground you walk on, it is known. You need not put yourself at a man’s mercy again. And I’ll be at your side, a dhlúthchara. She stroked my shoulder with an uncertain hand. “I’ll come for long visits, and we’ll ride and paint and...just the two of us, any time you wish. I’d not make you unhappy—never.”
How oddly she spoke. “I know you’d not, Maura. You needn’t say it.”
“I do, Neave, I must say it...” She nudged closer. “We’ll be the best of friends now, so much better than before, won’t we?” Very slowly, she pressed her lips to mine, her breath shallow and ragged. “I’d never leave you for another. I’d always be yours, a stór.”
I drew back, unblinking. Had the whole world gone mad or only me?
“What’s come over you, Maura?” I stood. “Are you in your cups?”
She stopped breathing. “I must be, I... Forgive me, Neave.” She caught an errant curl and twirled it round her finger with a trembling hand.
Numb with loneliness, I brushed a strand from my face. “I thought you my friend, Maura.”
She straightened, her face tight as a bow. “I am—your most loyal one. Never doubt it, Neave.”
Her gaze searched mine, raw and naked beneath the moon’s frosty glare. How I yearned for her laughing eyes, her easy manner. Take it back, Maura.
“I swear I’ll not utter a word of it again,” she whispered, “if you’ll suffer me to say one more thing.”
But she, too, was in pain. When had Benburb, this place of peace and contentment, turned into a purgatory? Or was it always so, and I’d been blind?
Mind racing, I nodded my agreement. Her bright gazes when she spoke of Dylan’s forbidden lovers, her ceaseless lament of tiresome men, her tender smiles and overlong hugs. I had been blind.
Maura bent to my ear, hands folded in her lap. “I could...I could make you happy,” she breathed, her voice faint as the whisper of autumn leaves that cling to the branches even as they’re ripped away by the implacable wind.
“Mayhap in another life.” I hoped she didn’t hear me as I bit the inside of my lip to suppress a new bout of hysterical laughter. His brother loved me and his marshal’s wife. But not he.
With great effort, I stopped myself and took her hand into mine. “What an unsettling daydream I’d just had, a chara. But it’s already fading away. How glad I am of your friendship in this my hour of need.”
Maura squeezed my fingers and stood. “I’ll help you pack on the morrow, and I shall—” She stumbled to the door, then turned before leaving. “In another life.”
I fell upon my bed after she left and stared, sightless, at the ceiling, my mind empty of thought, body free of movement. I lay there for a long time.
Am I dead?
I rose at first light and went to my dressing table. Another woman’s dressing table. The face looking back at me brought me up short: vacant eyes, hollow cheeks, pale lips. I’d aged a decade.
Head dull and heavy, I took one of my hairbrushes—his hairbrushes. Long ivory handle with gold inlays, large paddle with white boar bristle. I ran the brush through my hair for the last time in my life. I’d not take it along. I’d take none of the gowns and jewels he’d adorned me in when it suited him—only what I brought with me six years past. A blushing bride. A blundering fool.
“How can it be?” A bloodcurdling howl I didn’t know myself capable of pierced the bedchamber.
I hurled the brush clean into the neat array of perfume bottles, scattering them all over. Their mixed fumes floated up in a fetid cloud, cloying and suffocating.
Shaking from head to foot, I lifted my hair. Shall I cut it and take the veil—?
The sight of a thick strand above my left ear made me gasp. It gleamed white as newly fallen snow.