Chapter Thirty-Five
Two Tasks
Claude, May 16, 2012, Dallas, TX · Maura, August 6-11, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Claude zipped up hissuitcase and headed to his bedroom. He had an early flight and three insane days ahead, so sleep was essential. But how could he sleep? According to his agent, Grant, his “Goddess” show was going to be a raging success. Three of his paintings had already sold, which, alone, was enough to keep him up. But he would not be nearly as anxious were it not for Siena.
He stretched, took a few deep breaths, and lay down. Last time he saw her, she was four months pregnant—radiant, shapely, stunning. What if she had changed after the baby? He shrugged, pushing down a spike of unease. She may no longer be the ravishing beauty he had been cherishing in his heart. She may have lost her girly figure, cut her gorgeous hair, let herself go. Plenty of women did that and more as a sacrifice to motherhood.
He reached for a strand to twirl, forgetting his new haircut. If that disturbing watercolor she texted him reflected her looks, then she had not changed at all. Bien s?r que non. No doubt, she was even more beautiful now—maybe fuller curves, the glow of motherhood. Merde. It could have been his child. He should have fought for her, should have put a ring on her finger. But he had been too young and dumb to know what he had. An imbécile that had let go of the perfect woman. She was gone for good now, married to her big, brutish, stuck-up cop.
Claude turned on his side and stared at the row of shiny barbells lined up against his bedroom wall. C”est ridicule! He was pathetic, laughable. Why could he not move on? She had. She wanted nothing to do with him. Even that watercolor—she had not meant to send it to him. But to whom? The whole thing was very unlike her.
Sighing, he turned on his other side. He would now have one of those bizarre dreams. It was almost guaranteed—whenever he thought of Siena before bed, he usually had one. And while the dreams varied, the one disturbing constant was the absurd shape he assumed in them—
Claude winced and shook his head. Was it some weird part of his subconscious or something worse—a case for a shrink? To be clear, he was grateful for his muse. But if she were to come to him in the middle of the night, why did it have to be through the eyes of a person he had nothing to do with? Anyway, now that he had finished his “Goddess” series, he wished those dreams would go away.
He pulled in his breath to stop his mind from connecting all the usual dots. How could he accept such madness? Yet it was Siena’s mural at the National Gallery of Art that had connected all those unpleasant dots for him. He knew that warrior all too well from his ridiculous dreams—a toxic, egomaniacal bully that, for reasons unfathomable, the “goddess” swooned over to no end.
Quel bordel. He curled his lip—yes, like Siena with her cop. Yet if not for those dreams, he would have neither this show, nor a legitimate reason to travel to Dallas. To see her.
He closed his eyes and steeled himself against whatever the night may bring.
***
Maura, August 6-11, 1565
Maura halted in frontof the O’Neal’s newly built study, struggling to still the quivering in her hands and knees. She would have been better off dead. The chieftain had asked her to his study at supper, his impassive gray eyes fixed on her with mute condemnation. He’d never addressed her in all her life hitherto, nor even paid her heed. How low and menacing his voice sounded when he said he’d have a word.
She forced down the tears, clinging to her feeble hope with all her might. Might he spare her for her aid with Neave at the Beltane fires?
The tragedy of it was she knew how this came about, for it had always been a matter of time. Her lover, Grainne, the kitchen lass, had fallen in love with the head groom, or said she had. No fool she, Maura had always been heedful of discovery, meeting Grainne in the dead of the night, in the deepest recesses of the undercroft, and only when Fillan was gone from Benburb. She’d concealed some quilts in its darkest corner to spread out for their meetings. A fortnight had gone by since they lay embraced on those quilts and Grainne stunned her with news of her betrothal. Maura had laughed at first, thinking it a jest. The man, though easy enough on the eyes, had ten years on the lass and reeked of horse piss, rotting hay, and male sweat. But Grainne mumbled something of her future, home, and children as she dressed, suddenly calling Maura “m’lady” and avoiding her eyes.
“And what of your wishes?” Maura pulled on her kirtle and motioned to Grainne to tie her laces. “You’d let that man use you for the sake of a home and a brood?”
“There’s thrill to be found in a man’s touch,” Grainne whispered, her gaze on the floor.
Maura grew angry at such shameless tales, and they’d not parted well. The lass was comely, but not too bright, which were Maura’s exact parting words. Quite likely she’d gone blubbering of Maura’s perversities from spite, fancying herself uncompromised, the fool she was. Such talk would have no doubt reached the O’Neal’s ears, and he’d not suffer the likes of Maura as his marshal’s wife. He’d not tolerate her presence in his domain.
She gulped, reaching for the door. She could fall to her knees and beg for mercy. He’d been merciful with his foes. Even that wretch, O’Donnell, had languished but a fortnight in the O’Neal’s dungeon before his release back to Tyrconnell. Surely, he’d take pity on her, her only crime being the love of what he himself favored more than raids and warfare.
Maura blinked. Daft hopes! The O’Neal had always been a brute and a despot, and after Neave’s marriage to O’Donnell, he’d grown mad as a rabid hound. For four months, he’d been raiding and plundering the Pale with viciousness and mercilessness of a marauding Viking.
Come what may, she’d not grovel before the likes of him. Never. Maura straightened and knocked.
The O’Neal didn’t stir when she entered. He glared at his enormous bureau with the look of murder. Before him, empty flagons lay scattered amid a terrible disarray of scrolls, books, and maps. Since the poor English lass had perished in early childbirth along with her babe, he’d fallen into darker humor than before—a gun-powder barrel, lit and near to exploding.
Despite her resolve, Maura’s insides churned and heaved. Mayhap he’d finish her on the spot if she loosened her bowels.
“M’lord requested my presence.” Maura dipped her head, her voice so shaky, she had to clear her throat twice.
The O’Neal raised his head, his eyes dark and heavy like someone had blown out a candle. “I’ll have you take a wee trip, Lady Maura.”
Rome! In a cage like an animal! Ice filled Maura’s veins and braced her heart. Dismemberment! Burning at the stake!
“A...a...trip, m’lord...?” She swallowed, choking. She oughtn’t have taken up with the kitchen wench. How horrid and pitiful that such a worthless girl would become her undoing.
“To Tyrconnell, Lady Maura.”
She peered at the O’Neal, trembling like a leaf. Had fear impinged her hearing? “To...to...?”
“To pay a visit to your dearest friend, Lady Neave—O’Donnell.”
The way his face contorted when he bit out that name, it was as if someone stuck needles underneath his fingernails.
A brief wave of relief rose and ebbed, replaced with cold, heavy dread. “M’lord, begging your forgiveness, I’m the wife of your head marshal—”
“I’m aware of the peril you’ll face in Tyrconnell, Lady Maura, and I intend to reward you handsomely.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’ll find Fillan a new wife and will grant you a juicy parcel of land to build your own house. As well, I’ll throw a good number of cattle into the bargain. Your own land and your own cattle, Lady Maura. To do with and live there as you please under my protection.”
Maura stared, unblinking. “All this for a trip, m’lord?”
The O’Neal stood and approached. She’d never been so near to him. He was huge, towering over her and reeking of male and drink. She fought an urge to retreat. He’d snap her like a twig with his giant hands. How had lovely, graceful Neave fancied such a man?
“All this for two tasks, Lady Maura.” He drew nearer yet. “The first is to deliver a message to Lady Neave, and the second is to bring back an account of her condition.” He narrowed his eyes, the precise hue of winter clouds. “You’ll have the pleasant company of Lady Neave all to yourself if you use your marked cunning to advantage, Lady Maura.”
She stood very still, keeping her face empty of all feeling. Had she just dreamed this exchange?
“At ease, Lady Maura. Much as I love Fillan, he’s an unworldly lout.” His wintry eyes bored into hers. “But I’m not.”
Maura parted her lips, but nothing emerged. He knew, and yet, instead of sending her to Rome, he’d asked her to go to his one true love, knowing she fancied her.
“If it please m’lord,” she whispered, dropping her gaze.
“It will please me, Lady Maura—” He bit out, the pain in his eyes so bright, she winced, “so long as you bring me an account of her life and deliver my message, word for word.”
She shrank back from his wretched stare. “What’s the message, m’lord—?”
Maura stopped breathing as something happened to the O’Neal’s face. The chieftain was gone, and in his place, fluttered a human heart—burst open and bleeding out for all the world to see. But she must have imagined it, for the man remained before her, hard and implacable as ever.
“Have a seat, Lady Maura.” The O’Neal returned to his chair. “I’ll have you commit it to memory.”
***
Had Maura’s blastedgelding not lost his shoe, she wouldn’t have arrived at supper. But it couldn’t be helped, so here she was, standing in O’Donnell’s great hall beneath a dozen hostile glares, save for one. Her stomach squeezed, but she tore her gaze from Neave, fighting for calm. What had this awful man done to her that she’d grown so pale, with shadowy hollows underneath her eyes and a groove between her golden brows?
“You, again.” O’Donnell cocked his head, studying Maura. “Doesn’t the O’Neal have comelier spies?”
She let her gaze rest on him, slow and mocking: coarse red hair, eyes the color of dish water, and but a few seasons from going to fat, withal. You should talk. The bastard had his arms round his vulgar concubines with their dropped necklines and rouged breasts.
Maura gave O’Donnell a thin smile. “Apologies for disappointing on both counts, m’lord. I’ve come for a visit to my dearest friend, Lady Neave.”
“A visit, is it?” Tiernan gave a mirthless chuckle. “Does the lot of you take me for a fool? Which of the murderous O’Donnellys are you wed to?”
Maura compressed her lips at the flashback of her good-brother Ronan’s body being lowered into the earth to the beat of the bodhrán. Surely, the landsknecht raid was the lowest of blows. Would that she could spit into this wretch’s smug face.
“Lord Fillan O’Donnelly, the murderous cad he is.” She glared. “And just as ill-tempered as his commander.”
Neave cleared her throat as O’Donnell’s jaw clenched and eyes hardened.
“Lady Maura will be in need of refreshing after her ride,” she said in a clear, ringing voice. “I’ll show her to my chamber, m’lord.”
O’Donnell ignored her, eyeing Maura’s waiting-woman, Sorcha, and the O’Neal’s four guard standing close behind.
“Quite an escort for a friendly visit, Lady O’Donnell.”
Maura stilled herself. It wouldn’t do if her visit ended before it even began.
“I travel with my waiting-woman and guard as befits my rank.” She dipped her head the slightest bit. “Apologies for intruding upon your supper, m’lord.”
“The refreshing, then—” Neave’s voice emerged less certain this time.
O’Donnell’s gaze rested on the perfect woman, cold and pitiless. “The refreshing will wait until after the search. Bronagh—” A look passed between him and a portly woman-servant standing a distance behind Neave. “Make certain Lady O’Donnelly carries no weapons, nor parchments.”
All color drained from Maura’s face. “I’m your guest, m’lord!”
A smile of satisfaction touched his pale lips. “I’ll not keep you if you wish to leave, m’lady.”
Maura raised her chin and waved to Sorcha. Together, they followed Bronagh up the stairway to a small antechamber. The servant-woman was a hideous creature—a malicious sow with cold eyes set deep in her fleshy red face. Her meaty hands kneaded greedily at Maura’s breasts and abdomen, then rummaged under her skirts, affecting to search for nonexistent items.
Maura stood straight as a rod, glowering, as the hag wheezed through her snout.
“The nearest you’ll get to it, is it?” Maura caught her gaze.
Bronagh smiled, her swine eyes unblinking, and reached into her belt for a small blade. “M’lord would not take kindly to it if I said I found this beneath your laces, m’lady.”
“You dare make threats—” Maura bit her tongue at the thought of Neave’s wan face. “Are we quite finished, then?”
“Finished with you, m’lady.” Bronagh turned to Sorcha with an ugly smile. “But not yet with your waiting-woman.”
Out of her dusty riding clothes and with hair tucked beneath her kercher, Maura returned to the great hall to sit beside Neave at O’Donnell’s gluttonous supper table: salmon and trout, venison and mutton, kale and cabbage, breads and honey. But Neave touched no food, nor spoke a word. Her gaze, clouded and distant, swept Maura, then trained on an invisible spot beyond the castle walls. How Maura wished to take her in her arms and comfort her; she tightened her hand on her cup instead.
She’d had a bite of salmon and a sip of ale when O’Donnell cleared his throat.
“Now that you’ve eaten and drank at my table, you’ll hear my terms for your visit, lady O’Donnelly. Your stay is not to outlast three days, and whilst here, you’re to abide by the same rules as my wife.” He cocked his head at Neave, who paid him no heed. “You’re not to ride nor walk outside the castle without my guard, nor to sit for meals before I do. Further, I do not keep spare bedchambers for unheralded visitors, so you’re to share my wife’s chamber. Your waiting-woman is to board with my servants, and your guard is to billet with mine.”
***
Neave’s bedchamber, small and dim, was furnished with a narrow bed, a scraped chest of drawers, an undraped oaken chair, a cloudy brass mirror, and a cradle for the babe.
Maura clenched her jaw—this was a woman-servant’s chamber, not fit for a highborn lady. “Are all his chambers so meager, a dhlúthchara?”
They hadn’t exchanged a word hitherto, only a glance and a squeeze of a hand under the table—one initiated by Maura and not reciprocated. At the Beltane fires, Neave seemed to have forgotten Maura’s untoward proposition, aware as she must have been of the O’Neal’s hand in their stroll through the wood. Would she recall it now that they were alone in this small bedchamber?
“I had a lady’s chamber before—” Neave sank down on the bed, her stare vacant and dull. “Before he’d learned of my meeting with Lord O’Neal.”
Maura lowered herself beside her, clasped her hands together. The whispers of Neave’s adultery had reached every corner of Ulster.
Neave’s eyes swam with blue as she threw her arms round Maura and hid her face in her shoulder.
By God.She smelled of warmed honey and morning dew, but Maura pushed this away, holding her friend tight and stroking her silky, golden hair as she shook with sobs.
Maura frowned into the falling night. Not a day here, and my first task is all but complete. But it wouldn’t do to give the O’Neal such an account lest he grew berserk and murdered the entire O’Donnell clan in retaliation, much as they’d earned it.
Best to get on with the second task while she could, then. There was no knowing O’Donnell’s mind—he could throw her out on the morrow.
“Do you still suckle Aine?” Maura ventured, shivering with the weight of the O’Neal’s message.
Neave wiped her tears and glanced at her babe, her cerulean eyes bright between rows of long, auburn lashes. “What brings you here, Maura?”
Maura shrugged, forcing down the churning in her stomach. “The O’Neal has sent me, a dhlúthchara.”
She studied Neave for the effect of her words. Did she love him still? Maura had been too ashamed to eavesdrop on the two at the fires, so she’d walked out of the hearing distance. Not a moment passed that she hadn’t regretted her ill-timed scruples.
“Whatever for?” Neave stood and filled a linen-wrapped horn with milk from a churn, then lifted her babe from the cradle, and settled with her on the rough chair. Nothing moved in her face at the mention of the man. Could it be she loved him no more?
“You’ve weaned her, then—she’s old enough now,” Maura muttered, having not the faintest notion how to deliver the O’Neal’s terrible words.
“Not of my own free will. My milk had gone after my husband kept me prisoner in my chamber, filthy and starved.” Neave’s face, when she glanced up, held the O’Neal’s precise look of murder—ah, but they’d been a match. “Why did he send you?”
Maura twirled a loose curl furiously round her finger. Blasted man.
“I’m to bring him an account of your life and...” She blew out her breath. “And to deliver a message to you.”
Neave’s eyes, wide and unblinking, held the last hope of a condemned before the execution as she hugged the babe to her chest. And her misery was, in part, Maura’s own selfish doing—counseling her to leave Benburb for the daft fantasy of her intimate company. Advising her to flee when she ought’ve made her remain.
Maura stood and went to the small window. It was pitch dark outside, the crescent moon hiding behind the heavy rainclouds, ready to burst with thunder any moment. Breath hitched, she returned to Neave’s chair and bent to her ear.
“His message is this—” Maura squeezed her eyes shut. “’I know you’re being held captive, my Neave, for not only had you forsworn your promise to meet me, but neither do you visit nor send word to your kin. I give you one month to wean our daughter and send her to foster with your father. Do not fret for your kin—I will fortify Castle McConway against raids. But do not tarry, else our daughter shall face certain peril, for I will ride to Tyrconnell in one month’s time with the greatest raid it had yet seen. My only plunder will be you, my Neave, and God help those who would dare stand in my way, for I’ll kill them all, young and old, to bring you home to me.”
Deathly white, Neave went to the cradle and put her babe down.
“Brigid, he’s mad,” she choked out. “I’ll not be the cause of a bloodshed. Don’t you utter a word of what you’ve seen here, Maura! Tell him I’m content here, and...heavy with child and overjoyed, withal! Tell him...” Neave swallowed, eyes burning with sky-blue flame. “That I’ve no love for him now...after our meeting... I...” The sob that escaped from her was agony mixed with the same madness that was consuming the O’Neal. “That I’d come to my senses! Tell him, Maura! I’ll not be his concubine. Never! Tell him to forget me!”
“Concubine?” Maura raised her brows, lost in the ever-raging storm that was Neave and the O’Neal. “Surely, the brehon would grant you divorce on such grounds, and—”
A shadow of frenzied laughter crossed Neave’s face. “Does he mean to wed me with the countess as his wife!”
Maura frowned. “But she—”
“Do not speak to me of her!” Neave clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the hysteria, but it bubbled at her lips. “I do not wish to hear it!”
Another moment, and she’d go to pieces. Suddenly fed up, Maura stepped to the cradle and gave her friend a stern shake on the shoulders. “Hush now! She’s dead and buried, Neave, haven’t you heard?”
Neave froze—then swayed beneath Maura’s slipping grip. Yet Maura managed to steady the taller woman with her hands on her waist—her eyes widened—on her small but unmistakable swell. Wordless, Maura walked Neave back to her bed. The O’Neal would likely strike her dead in a fit of rage if she returned with such tidings. Then, he would ride to Tyrconnell and wage a blood bath.
Neave lay down and stared at Maura, unblinking. “When...when did she...”
“In an overearly childbirth, a dhlúthchara.” Maura lowered herself beside her. “Her mattress had been soaked through with her life’s blood. When the O’Neal had learned the lass was in the clutches of death, he rushed to the birth chamber. They never took to one another, Neave. She’d been but a hostage, never venturing outside her bedchamber, nor uttering a word to anyone, save her two waiting-women. And there were whispers she’d tried to kill the babe and to incite the O’Neal in the vilest of ways—theft and adultery, fancy that—so he would send her back. And whispers, too, that she’d gone to his chamber to murder him in his sleep but failed, and he’d kept her there all night—” Maura gulped at the sight of Neave’s face. “But it must have been tales, all, for the midwife said he held her in his arms as her life slipped from her—” Maura wiped at her eyes, overcome. “And he wept and cursed the Tudor bitch, howling of the lass’ blood on her hands—”
Neave blinked. “And what of the babe?”
“Stillborn—too small to live.” With great care, Maura grasped Neave’s trembling shoulders and drew her into her arms, gentle as a summer breeze. “A comely wee lad he was, the midwife said. All Lord O’Neal—dark hair and those gray eyes—naught of the mother.” Maura pressed her lips to Neave’s ear. “He’s in a bad way, the O’Neal is. Worse than before, Neave. I bring my own message, more urgent than his. The whispers of his madness and incapacity grow every day. There’s open talk of new clan elections—he’s all but unfit to rule. You must find a way to return, Neave, to take your rightful place at his side and to make him see sense again.”
For much as he’s a brute, he’s a brute I know. And beholden to me, withal.
Neave’s bed was too narrow for the two of them, but Maura moved as far away as she could, suddenly too aware of Neave’s sweet scent, the warmth of her alabaster skin, the soft swell of her curves. What a trial. If only she could bring her lips to Neave’s shiny eyes and plant soft kisses to make them close, to brush her lips against Neave’s, warm and light. She’d kiss her neck, collar bone, shoulders, and would be so gentle, not like the O’Neal, not like any man, for she alone had a woman’s touch—
Maura jerked as Neave took her hand and placed it on her abdomen.
“His name is Aedan Og, for he’s the living image of his father,” she whispered. “Swear, Maura, that you’ll keep it a secret, for I wish to tell him myself.”
***
Her final night inTyrconnell, Maura waited for Neave to drift off to sleep while forcing wakefulness. Then, guilt-ridden, she watched the living, breathing goddess, curled on her side: long lashes caressing her cheek, rosebud lips parted in slumber, hands resting on her abdomen, protective of her lover’s babe. How gratified the O’Neal must have been to hear her scream his name while she peered into his wintry eyes. How much he must yearn for it now. Small wonder he’d gone mad. Maura had been going mad herself, her stay having turned into an unslaked waking dream of loving embraces. In truth, the strain of it had grown too heavy to bear. Maura scoffed at the irony—what a relief this was the last night.
Neave murmured something and turned languidly on her other side, away from Maura. Raising herself on one elbow, Maura studied her sleeping form with new interest. How she wished to paint her just so, but out of her shift—her heart-shaped rump, shapely legs, full breast skimming the bed, golden strands tousled about her lovely shoulders. Yet she couldn’t do so, for it would be a portrait of a lover, not a friend.
Maura clenched her fists and stared out the window at the black pit of the new moon. Much as she delighted in being a woman, would that she’d been born a man. She’d have made a fine man—kind, gentle, and courtly—the sort Neave would surely prefer to the barbarous O’Neal. Maura gave a bitter scoff. Ironic that she’d just wished to be a man when she despised the whole lot of them.
What we wouldn’t do for love. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, the visions of what could have been swirling round her in a slumberous cloud.
Something soft and warm shifted in Maura’s arms, waking her. By God! Breath held, Maura lay motionless, struggling to make sense of Neave’s rosy cheeks and curved lips.
Neave opened her eyes, blue like the summer sky. She appeared herself again, the groove between her brows gone, the hollows beneath her eyes faint. But she gazed at Maura unseeing, holding tight to her slipping dream. And Maura dared not stir, for even the slightest movement would betray the cause of such a dream—their limbs lay entwined together, like lovers.
But there would be no helping it. Neave’s eyes cleared and widened—first with bewilderment, then with alarm. She jerked away as the vision left her in a single tide.
Maura swallowed. “Are you well, a dhlúthchara?”
Neave smiled—her first smile since Maura’s arrival. “Tell Lord O’Neal I’ve weaned Aine and will send her to fosterage at Castle McConway. Tell him, too, that I’ll come to Benburb myself—and sooner than in a month. And tell him, above all, that he’s to stay put and await me, for I’d not come to an empty home!”
“But...” Maura fell silent, too stunned to speak.
Neave’s smile grew wider. “I must borrow Sorcha’s russet robe, Maura.”
Maura stared at her friend, who’d surely lost her wits. “Are you mad?” she squeezed out, “When I said you must find a way, I’d meant a visit to your father or...or elsewhere! Do you fancy they won’t know you in russet?”
Neave pressed her index finger to Maura’s lips, small and warm. “Fret not, a chara, I’ll employ better means than the mere russet for my disguise. They’ll never know me when I ride away from here for good.”
Maura peered ahead, unseeing. How had she failed her mission? And what was she to tell the O’Neal? She turned to Neave, too weary to carry on. “You must still be dreaming, a dhlúthchara.”
Neave brushed a golden strand from her face, her skin the precise hue of rose petals. “You’ve it right, Maura—it was my dream.” Her blush deepened. “When we met in secret, Lord O’Neal wore homespun, but in my dream, I was the peasant, and with sunbaked skin and brown hair, withal. I scarcely looked myself, but he...” Neave’s skin turned crimson. “He fancied me all the same.”
Maura released her breath, vexed beyond measure. What mocking spirit had turned her very desire to the means of bringing the two together again?
She gasped when Neave pulled her close. “My gratitude, a chara.”
Her sweet breath warmed Maura’s face as their eyes locked. Then, Neave’s sealed lips pressed against Maura’s. Something told Maura this was their last meeting, so she gathered the living goddess into a tight embrace and breathed her heart-wrenching confession in her ear.