I remained silent. I would not trouble her with life’s torments now. They would be nothing to her soon.
‘Aoife, please. Quickly now, please,’ she pleaded, an urgency in her faint voice.
Seeing she wanted to know, her need to know, I started. I told her of our arrival at Glascarrig. She laughed quietly at Conor’s bursting from the dunes on the beach and the startled Normans. She raised an eyebrow that our kinsfolk of the Uí Chennselaig had agreed to support her husband again. She shook her head at the inevitable defeat at Cill Osnadh. I stopped there.
Her head lay to one side, looking at me. She could always know my thoughts, or at least that something troubled me, something I was not saying.
‘Aoife?’ she said, smiling. ‘Aoife . . . tell me.’
I looked to Alice. She probably knew nothing of the ruinous éineach fine that had been placed upon my father by the Brehon, Cormac, in the aftermath of the battle. However, now was a time for truth. A time—the final time—when the happenings in the lives of two people must be spoken of, for whatever purpose, or forever they will live on, unresolved, while the people die.
Alice nodded, so I told my mother of the fine, hoping that would satisfy her.
My mother held my gaze, questioning. I had never spoken to her of the abduction of O’Rourke’s wife, Dearbhail, by my father. I had long wondered as to the circumstances but knew it was a subject not to be raised. Any mention of her had always been met with a burning glare from my father or an abrupt departure by my mother.
‘What is it, Aoife? Why such a heavy fine?’ she asked.
When I didn’t respond, she squeezed my hand. Alice nodded more urgently now. Reluctantly, slowly, I recounted what had happened—how my father had been found guilty by the Brehon of breaking the law of Cáin Lánamna, the law that decrees that should a man rape or steal the wife of a high noble or king, the full honour price of the husband is owed by the perpetrator. It pained me to have to remind my mother of how my father had betrayed her, despite him denying the abduction.
She remained silent. I thought I could feel her shame and humiliation. I hated him all the more for being the cause of this distress to my mother in her final moments.
‘I’ll fetch Conor,’ I said, rising to break the tension and hoping to offer her some relief with his joy.
‘No, Aoife, sit.’ She gripped my hand tightly. ‘I must tell you something first.’ She strained to lift herself to hold me with her. ‘Sit, please.’
She settled as I sat on the bed, holding her hand. Her breathing steadied again. I gently raised her head and pressed some water to her lips. She drank deeply, steeling herself to her task.
‘Aoife, a great wrong has been done your father,’ she said. ‘He speaks the truth—he did not abduct Dearbhail. She came willingly.’ As she spoke, the tension eased from her strained features. Her grip lessened, and as she relaxed, I could see the echo of her youthful beauty. Strange, with death so close, how the pulses of memory and form move through us.
Transported to that time, soon after her marriage to my father, it was as if she relived the painful events but, and in some way, reconciled and forgave. She spoke.
Theirs had been a marriage of two dynastic families of Leinster, the MacMurroughs and her family, the Ni Tuathail. She had not known my father but had consented to the marriage nonetheless. Indeed, her affections lay elsewhere in her youth. Lifting her eyes to me, she continued.
‘Aoife, although we women have our rights, you will find that your blood is the tide on which your life must travel . . . not your desires.’
Alice caught my look of alarm that my mother could know of Myler. She shook her head vigorously—she had not betrayed me.
My mother went on to tell me how she had learnt in time how my father had, in his youth, fallen in love with a beautiful young princess of north Leinster, Dearbhail Ni Maeleachlainn. From a noble family of royal lineage, she was descended from Ireland’s greatest ard rí, Brian Boru.
It was a genuine affection between my father and Dearbhail, my mother whispered, not driven by dynastic ambitions. A youthful love, which is no more resistible than the rising of the sun, and should not be so. A love that was shattered as my father’s fortunes waned and a marriage was hastily arranged for Dearbhail with an ambitious neighbouring king, Tiarnan O’Rourke. A marriage made necessary for the safety of her family to appease the warmongering of O’Rourke. It was the reason Dearbhail had agreed to the marriage.
My father had been distraught. All the more so when, almost immediately, O’Rourke resumed hostilities against Dearbhail’s father, Murchad Ua Maeleachlainn, king of Meath. Dearbhail suffered greatly as a consequence.
Dearbhail was of a delicate nature, more saintly than worldly . . . nearly angelic, my father had told my mother as events unfolded back then. Consumed with the Christian God, he suspected she was not suited for this world. He was pained by O’Rourke’s mistreatment of her, and he shuddered at the memories.
Fearing she would leave him, as was her right, O’Rourke had imprisoned Dearbhail on an island in a lake in his kingdom of Bréifne, but not before her virtue had suffered his abuse. Throughout this time my father had, through his spies, maintained a secret communication with her. With each letter my father received, his anguish increased as he learned of the depravation and torment the sweet girl suffered. He felt her withering as the years passed and knew her kindly soul would not leave that island in bodily form as things stood.
With my mother’s knowledge and more from pity for the sufferings of one he had held dear, he took the opportunity of an unfavourable turn in fortune for O’Rourke to mount a foray into Bréifne to rescue Dearbhail from the island.
Enraged, O’Rourke had let it be known that my father had forcibly abducted his wife and imprisoned her in Ferns, where she suffered terrible abuses in his bed. Nothing could have been further from the truth, my mother said. Dearbhail was a broken, enfeebled woman when she had welcomed her into her house. She herself had cared for her, and my father had shown great kindness as she was nursed back to health over the months. He had not countered the lies O’Rourke had spread about the circumstances of Dearbhail leaving him. To do so would have brought the wrath of O’Rourke and O’Connor onto Dearbhail’s family in Meath. He would suffer the wrath of the nobility, the church, and the Brehons, each outraged at his perceived misdeeds and abuse of the law.
‘Don’t judge him so harshly, Aoife,’ she said, her voice weakening from the strain of talking.
I pressed a damp cloth to her dry lips; it dribbled down her cheek. Or were these her tears now. She went on to tell me how when Dearbhail had recovered her strength, she had returned to her father in Meath, the threat from O’Rourke having dissipated. He was occupied elsewhere.
‘That poor girl never recovered from her ordeal in O’Rourke’s hands. She buried herself in her religion like many broken souls do, seeking solace and certainty in a magical world from the pain and uncertainty of this earth.’ She stopped. Her body arched, racked with pain. She gave a soft, barely audible cry. Then looked at me, almost pleading.
‘Please, can it stop, Aoife, mo ghra sa?’ Her voice trailed and her breath slowed to a rattle in her throat. Holding my gaze, she smiled as her eyes closed slowly over the fading spark of life.
‘Mo ghra sa.’ A final whisper from a slight tremor of her lips. A mother’s love. I kissed her. Her hand slackened in mine, and she was gone.
I disliked the hooded crows, but they were suited to this place. They deepened my gloom, their black caps sitting on what looked like the grey chainmail aventails the Norman knights wore to protect their necks and shoulders, watching. They were killers and would have taken the chicks of the swallows were their nests not cleverly tucked under the castle eaves. They seemed to revel in the blustering autumnal winds that heralded the coming of winter.
My swallows had departed. The small delicate nests were silent now of the chattering clutches. They had gathered in their family groups, their tribes, in the kalends of September. Unusually quiet, they perched in the rims of the small turrets on the walls. Within reach, they sat silently, like spirits, watching me. Used to my presence, as if contemplating their journey, they looked forlorn, mourning the passing of the summer, or mourning with me the loss of mother, as I liked to think.
Then, one wispy morning with a glimmering sun, they had gathered on the roof ridge of the Great Tower. A couple, then more, took flight. Swooping and calling, enticing the younger ones. It was time to go. I watched as a last bird was berated from the ridge, the flight now impatient to take their leave.
A rush of wind felt in my hair. Another. An excited chatter flashed past my ear. And another. Many more, like a swarm of flies around a horse’s head on a windless hot summer’s day. A joyous, noisy farewell from my friends, wishing me well and lifting my spirits. The revolving circle of the dance of life would go on; we would meet again next year.
There was a sullen atmosphere in the castle. Strongbow had not yet returned to Chepstow. He was ever at the king’s side, doing his bidding in his efforts to regain his confidence. There was some hope now the king would relent and give his permission for the campaign in Ireland. To that end, Myler and his uncles had been called to Strongbow’s side to quell some unrest in Northumbria. Merciless to his enemies and unforgiving to recalcitrant lords, the king would extract a heavy price from Strongbow for his forgiveness.
I felt Myler’s absence. Montmorency oversaw the affairs of the castle with the rest of the knights away with Strongbow. He was insufferable. I avoided him as best I could. Apart from passing encounters in the courtyard, our paths seldom crossed. I would keep it that way. Alice warned me to be on my guard – he had abused some of the kitchen girls and seemed to take pleasure in the violence and reluctance of his victims.
But with the king's ear, he was the key to unlocking the Norman army I needed to reach Eanna. His influence could sway the king to let Strongbow sail for Ireland with his followers. They all needed Montmorency as much as I did. Although I despised the man, I had to thread carefully with him.
My only solace was with Alice. Her kindness after my mother’s death sustained me. As the dreary winter evenings drew ever darker in the draughty rooms of the castle, we took to spending our evenings in her warm cellar, down the broad flagstone steps from the roaring fires of the kitchen. On occasions, she would have a large, copper bath filled from the water boiling cauldrons of the kitchen. I would luxuriate in the soothing warmth, my spirits lifting with the steam swirling into the stone vaulted roof.
