Chapter Thirty-Four
The Bed I Made
Neave, May 16-19, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Three women-servantswith thick arms and cold eyes followed O’Donnell into my chamber. Two held me down while their superior, Bronagh, disrobed, sniffed, and probed every fingerbreadth of me with her damp, meaty hands. My body ran with sweat as I screamed and fought them and threatened my husband with complaint to the brehon, but it was no use. Pale and still as a statue, he stood at the foot of my bed, watching the proceedings with hard eyes.
Violent tremors seized my limbs. My heart pounded beneath my ribcage. But I’d not kindle his bloodlust with my fear, so I schooled my mind to contempt and returned his look. Like a furious tide, the terror rushed out of me, fading into the mist. I needed not fret, for the best and the worst had come to pass—no more feigning defunct revenge, no more stifling unceasing longing, no more concealing utter disdain. No more falsehoods. Surely, O’Donnell would divorce me now, and then, dishonored and ill-famed, I’d return to my father’s castle, where I would at least be free.
Awakened by the commotion, wee Aine fussed and began to wail. O’Donnell cocked his head to the side and widened his stance.
My heartbeat surged into my throat. He’d not hurt a blameless babe. My feeble fancies fell away like ash. He’d not dare harm a gentle-born child.
He fixed her small, defenseless body with a pitiless stare.
The chamber shrank and spun. My vision flickered in the corners of my eyes. “My babe wants suckling!” I injured the skin on my wrist to wrench free.
Bronagh smirked. “The O’Neil’s spawn will wait—m’lady.”
Chest heaving, I stilled myself, then spat in her face. From the corner of my eye, O’Donnell’s mouth stretched into a thin, pale line.
The woman wiped at her hefty cheek with her sleeve. “Flip her over.”
Aine’s screams pierced the chamber, but they carried on as before, pushing my wrists and ankles into the mattress with brutal force.
Hush, hush, my wee love.My eyes were on fire. My body convulsed against hard, ruthless hands. It was I who had thrust my daughter into this peril, I who would be culpable if she came to harm.
“Good heavens.” Bronagh clucked her tongue, dragging her hard palm across my behind as if wishing to add her imprints. Without warning, her fingers jolted between my legs as if yearning to spear me.
“Will you say naught, m’lord—” I gritted my teeth, head pounding, sweat turning cold, “while this scum molests your wife?”
Aine’s voice cracked from exertion.
“Let me suckle her...” I squeezed my eyes shut, trembling from head to foot.
Bronagh’s hands on me halted. “I’m finished, m’lord.”
My husband lifted my babe from the bassinet.
“I beg you...” My breath came in frantic gasps. “Please don’t harm her...” My wail slashed through her shrieking, thin and shrill.
But he only rocked her, cool and unruffled. She soon grew quiet. He put her back and returned to his post, studying me. A heifer ready for slaughter.
My heart struck heavy blows against my chest. He would punish me most severely before he disgraced me with divorce. From the slight tilt of his head, he’d already contrived my sentence.
My thoughts skipped and stumbled over each other in a sickening reel. Sackcloth, flogging, public shaming.
“Your findings, Bronagh?” His voice spilled forth smooth as silk, but his gaze on me lay heavy as lead. “Release her.”
I stiffened, fighting an overwhelming urge to curl into a ball of shame and terror. After what he’d witnessed with his own eyes, he needed no report—only whispers that would spread like wildfire to justify his punishment for my indefensible offense.
My heartbeat surged into my ears. Shearing, nunnery.
The awful woman cleared her throat. “She smells of man and has...ahem...dried spunk ’tween her legs, m’lord...ahem...”
My husband nodded with studious calm. “Go on, Bronagh.”
Coughing, sniffling, and shrugging, Bronagh gave an exhaustive account of my transgressions. She omitted nothing as my husband listened with an impassive expression. As I lay, flinching from her every word.
He trained his gaze on me after his creatures took their leave.
“It appears our sordid designs of revenge have resulted in a bit of a backlash,” he said, rigid as a board.
He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “I’ve done all I could to make your life here tolerable. Even pleasant. I gave you leave to enjoy my lands, my stable, my riches—all I own. There was naught I denied you: new gowns for you and your child made of silks and fine linen, unconditional visits to your kin—who are my foes, costly pigments and canvas for your paintings.” He tightened his jaw. “You must know your power over men. D’you know that I stir at the mere sight of you? Neither Ciara nor Fiadh rouse me so. Yet I’d not laid claim to your bed, as any chieftain would in my place, save for one solitary night and at your own fraudulent solicitation. But even such flagrant misuse I’ve left unpunished.”
I curled into a ball at his words, staring at the side of the bassinet with a thumping heart. He fancied me, after all. Mayhap he’d issue a milder sentence—
He spat. “And this is how you repay my courtesies—rolling in the hay behind my back with my mortal rival, letting him use you like a filthy harlot!”
I flinched from the look on his face, cold as ice.
“You’ll have your door barred for three days, with one meal of barley loaf and watered ale and only the babe to keep your disgraceful company.”
The walls rushed toward me, hard and fast. I shot to my feet, struggling to cover myself with my quilt. “To what end, m’lord, when...when this is to end in divorce?”
“Divorce—?” He tossed my damaged kirtle over his arm and headed to the door, back stiff as a rod. “I advise you to calm yourself, wife.” He turned before leaving. “And to thank me for not having you shorn and flogged as you so richly deserve. I derive no pleasure from striking women.”
I rushed after him, covered in icy, sticky sweat at the terror of confinement. “M’lord—”
A new look in his watery eyes made me go still. I backed away, but fast as a lynx, he grabbed my wrist and crushed it in his hand. The quilt fell to the floor.
“Another word,” he snarled, “and I’ll have Bronagh and her women rub your fouled body with sand and lye soap in unheated water.”
He marched out then, slamming the door so hard, I felt it in my loins.
Naked and trembling, I stood rooted to the spot where he left me, listening to the hair-raising thwack of wood against iron. I hugged myself before the small, bronze mirror: tangled hair, fevered eyes, ghostly pallor. With shaking hands, I pulled on my léine and bent over the bassinet to watch my babe in her blissful sleep.
Three days later, I emerged from my prison starved, dirty, and half-mad. As promised, my daily meals had consisted of a stale barley loaf and a cup of watered ale, but my punishment didn’t end there. My husband had also barred me from washing, painting, and reading. Even my basin had not been refilled with fresh water, and all my pigments, canvas, and books had been permanently confiscated and replaced with the Holy Scriptures.
“M’lord is too good to you,” Bronagh, gleeful with her new duty as my guard, had spat when she delivered my first ration of prison grub. “Were it me, I’d give your back a taste of the rod, I would.”
On the second day of my captivity, I made half the milk my babe needed. She screamed so hard that Bronagh gave in at last and brought watered goat milk—to be spared of “having to hear the rotten spawn.”
Smiling, she said I was to live in my own filth as I was a corrupt, filthy creature. Thusly, my chamber pot was to stand unemptied until my release, at which time I was to empty and scrub it myself until she deemed it fitting for use. I doubted that last trial was my husband’s doing, but I bit my lip and did Bronagh’s bidding until my hands bled.
Yet it was that last indignity that laid bare my belated clarity—I had to flee Tyrconnell. But how? Meeting Aedan with the intent to return here would be madness. I’d surely be whipped, shorn, imprisoned, and starved for as long as my husband and, possibly, Bronagh, pleased. And with indisputable proof of adultery, neither could I turn to the brehon for mistreatment even if he had Aedan’s ear. So long as the disgraced husband left no visible marks, his wife’s punishment was his own affair.
There was but one way out, then—shameful, uncertain, and prolonged, but achievable. It was mostly what Aedan himself had devised: I’d wean Aine—a measure already started thanks to O’Donnell, send her to fosterage at Castle McConway, then, ride to the hunter’s hut and elope with Aedan to Benburb. He’d then retrieve our daughter, and I’d petition for divorce. All this would likely take place with Aedan still wed, so I’d be sharing a roof with his wife. This, along with my pregnancy, would bring great shame to my father, incite a raid, and forever taint me with notoriety. But I was past caring.
After three days of sound meals, bathing, and a bit of fresh air, always in the company of my guard, I’d come up with a plan. I’d keep my word and ride to the hut today, but merely to apprise Aedan of my designs. I scoffed—they’d find naught but horse scent on me.
One last time, I checked myself in the mirror: thin, pale, frantic. But my husband had gone out, and Bronagh had stepped away, so I swallowed my terror and rushed downstairs.
My stomach dropped when I pushed the door open. The head of the home guard stood outside, blocking my way.
“You’re not to leave here, m’lady.” He snorted, then spat. “Lord O’Donnell’s orders.”
I stared, speechless, heart drumming like a bodhrán. “How dare you order me, man.” I took an angry step toward him. “Make way.”
“Begging your forgiveness, m’lady—” His voice carried no apology. “M’lord bid me to keep you safe here in his absence. If necessary, by force,” he added with a blank look.
“I am Lord O’Donnell’s consort, not his prisoner,” I choked out, trembling. “You’ll move aside and let me pass.”
The guard met my gaze, eyes cold and unmoving. “Afraid I cannot.”
I bit my lip. If I took him by surprise and bolted past him, I could make a run for the stables. Orders or no, this man wouldn’t dare put his hands on me.
His sword was at his right, so aiming for his weaker left, I sucked in my breath and charged into the gap between his bulk and the door.
He stopped me in my tracks, grabbing me like a sack of grain.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” I screamed, gulping for breath through the pounding in my ears.
Staring ahead, the man marched to the settee, deposited me there, and headed to the door.
I stumbled back to my chamber, choking on my sobs. Aedan would be waiting for me, pacing in the small hut. I leapt to the window—mayhap I could still make my escape. But my blood iced over at the sight below. A piked sentry had been installed at every window.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, heart racing like a trapped squirrel. Sentries or not, I’d never make it to the ground in one piece were I mad enough to leap from the second story.
Unblinking, I sank down on my bed, then shot to my feet and called for Betha.
“Ride to my father’s castle outright,” I whispered, frantic. “And tell him O’Donnell is keeping me prisoner here.”
She returned too soon with an uncertain knock.
“The guard won’t give me leave, m’lady,” she breathed, pale as a sheet.
***
O’Donnell arrived infive days’ time. He entered my chamber with a benevolent expression as I read John 8:1-11 to soothe myself after cowering from the horrors of Numbers 5:24.
“It is my hope that we can make a new beginning,” he purred, coming near, “now that you’ve done penance for your wrongdoings, wife.”
I stood, burning with ill fever at the sight of him. “What is the meaning of this imprisonment, husband?”
His gaze upon me was calm as a pond at dawn. “Imprisonment? Far from it—I only mean to keep you safe.”
I clenched my fists. “Safe from enjoying a stroll or a ride?”
His eyes grew cold. “All of Tyrconnell is still abuzz with whispers of your last ride. Not only did you appear to have been come upon by a band of foot soldiers, but—” He shrugged. “You oughtn’t have spun tales of being thrown. You see, aside from your fame in the saddle, the mare you’d had the misfortune to pick is the gentlest in my stable.”
I swallowed, digging my fingernails into my palms. “I wish to return to my Scriptures if you’re quite finished.”
“Yet another attempt at reconciliation is answered with scorn and rejection.” He shook his head. “You’ll have time enough for reading, wife. You’re not to leave my castle while I’m away, and if you wish to ride when I’m here, you’re to go with Bronagh.”
I drew near, glaring with such loathing, he flinched.
“You’ve just declared your intention to keep me prisoner under guard,” I said, my voice menacing. “I shall complain to the brehon.”
“Mind to cite your adultery when you do.” He scoffed. “In the event, the brehon would be hard pressed not to laud my industry at keeping you safe. I’ll not repeat your first husband’s blunder.”
All my blood rushed to my head, and before I could stop it, my hand rose and struck his face with all the force I could muster. “How dare you say this to me!”
He regarded me with sudden humor in his pale eyes. “I’d find your undying love for your O’Neal insulting were it not so pitiful. He’s left you for another woman—one far better suited to his rank and carrying his new heir, besides. And soon as you rushed back to him, he used you like a harlot and cast you aside the second time.”
He grabbed my chin and forced it up, his fingers digging into my skin. “I’ll have you locked in your chamber for a sennight if you strike me again, woman.”
“You’ll take your hands off me and never threaten me again,” I spat, trembling. “Lest the O’Neal learns how you treat the mother of his children.”
Something moved in his face, and he let go. But he didn’t leave.
“Speaking of children—” His limpid gaze locked on mine. “It’s well past the time you carried out your wifely duties. I mean to resume my visits—until you’re with child.” He pursed his lips. “Given your ill temper and poor character, I cannot say the prospect thrills me, but my heirs will be comely at least.”
He left then, and I stood before the door, chortling through the tears while caressing my yet flat belly.
Soon as the evening fell, O’Donnell entered my chamber, wearing a léine and a frown.
I drew the blanket up to my chin. “I’m not well just now.”
Ignoring me, he threw back the quilt and lifted my shift, motioning for me to raise my arms.
I crushed them to my sides. “I’ll not do it.”
His frown deepened. “You will obey, wife, or you’ll find the coming weeks quite unpleasant indeed.”
Swiftly, he pulled off his léine. His incongruous scent of whiskey and thyme soap wafted over me in cruel mockery. I bucked my hips when he pressed on—neither touch, nor caress, nor a word. How could he expect willingness?
He glared. “Lest you wish to be sore, you’d be wise to part your legs for me as readily as you do for him.”
A furious surge of heat rushed into my face, but I shut my eyes and summoned Aedan’s image.
“You’ll look upon me when I take you, wife.” He squeezed my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “And if you utter his name again, your three-day confinement will seem but a fond memory.”
“How scandalously unlearned you are in the art of love, Tiernan O’Donnell,” I bit out, pushing away tears, “if you fancy a woman would look upon an oaf who is forcing her.”
His neck and cheeks flooded with red spots, but his lust had not waned for my mockery.
“None would charge me with coarseness, yet it’s the language you best understand—” His face was a fingerbreadth from mine, breath coming in swift gusts. “You wag your daft, female tongue, but I’ve sharpened my sword. For it isn’t vengeance I seek against the haughty bastard in Benburb, but his demise. And you, Neave O’Neal, are but a means to an end.”