‘Anyhow, Aoife, there has been enough procrastination. We all need to know our future paths.’ He smiled. “You, me, my followers . . . everyone. We must decide.’
He faced into the framed light of the window, his shoulders rising with his breathing, arranging his thoughts. Was it a draught in his hair, or did I detect a hint of a shake of his head?
Turning to me, he looked saddened.
‘Aoife, I remain very unsure. It is so fraught with risk now.’ He paused. I knew he did not want to speak of his improved prospects in Britain as the favour of the king was restored. He now had less need of Ireland.
‘However, I must decide. I will meet the king’s messenger and dine with him this evening,’ he said. ‘I will make my final decision tomorrow morning.’
Then, turning to Montmorency, he continued. ‘Sir Hervey, above all others I value your opinion in this. Your judgment has proven sound. What is your advice, Do we go to Ireland?’
Montmorency briefly caught my eye.
‘I’m flattered, m’lord. You do me a great honour,’ he said. His flickering eyes seeing his scheme. ‘Indeed, these are momentous decisions . . . which must not be taken in haste, as has happened previously.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘If I could, m’lord, I would like to glean the full facts from the princess before I give you my recommendation.’
Strongbow agreed. Being very reflective himself, he valued those who, armed with the facts, gave reasoned thought to their advice.
Emboldened, Montmorency continued.
‘Could I suggest I give the matter my full attention, in private, with the princess this evening while you are entertaining the king’s messenger? When I am fully satisfied’—he paused, looking me straight in the eye—‘then I will give you my advice . . . in the morning.’ He smiled.
‘Excellent, thank you, Sir Hervey. I will make my decision then.’
We walked the length of the hall towards the large studded oak doors. When we were safely out of earshot, Montmorency whispered, ‘Come to my chambers this evening when Strongbow is at dining. Come appropriately dressed and scented . . . I prefer lavender. ’
I could hear the echo of voices and laughter as I turned from the kitchens down the wide stone stairs that led to Alice’s cellar, ducking to avoid the stone arch which had given many rushed kitchen lads a nasty surprise. Rob sat with his father, Ewan, by the fire, while Alice busied herself amongst the flaxen sacks of the stored provisions and raised side-on casks of ale and wine. The seeping fire smoke mingled with the heady musk of the tinder-dried spices arrayed on the shelves—arriving from near and far, the sharp smell of cloves, ginger, cinnamon and more. Since returning from Ireland, Rob had been inseparable from his father. As often happens, the taste of the unknown and our own deeds drive us homeward to the people and places we know.
Seeing the anguish in my face as I pushed open the door, Alice immediately turned to her two men.
‘You two have a lot to do, so off with you now.’
‘No, we’re fine, Mam,’ Rob said. ‘All finished for the day.’ He sat back contented, musing into his mug of ale.
Ewan looked at his wife, feeling the instant change of atmosphere in the cosy cellar as only a husband can after years of marriage, as if the window had been thrown open to a sharp frost. Following Alice’s eyes over his shoulder, he saw me.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You’re right, Alice, I just remembered.’ He stood up.
‘What?’ Rob objected. ‘Well, not me. I’m fine here.’
‘Rob! We’re busy . . . get off your arse. Let’s go. Now!’ Ewan made himself clear with a hint of the sergeant’s authority in his tone. That did it instantly. Rob jumped to his feet and obediently followed his father out, looking puzzled.
Alice closed the door behind them and turned to me. Holding me at arm’s length, she took a moment to sense the depth of my pain.
‘Sit down.’ She led me to the cushioned high-backed chair Rob had vacated near the fire. Taking my cloak, she fetched me a cup of diluted wine and waited for me to calm myself. I could see the circular ripples on the surface of the transparent ruby liquid caused by the shaking of my hand.
‘Take your time, Aoife. Drink slowly . . . breathe deeply.’
I gripped the cup tightly with both hands, the ripples heightening. A slight heave as a sob rose from my belly, through my arms, rattling my grip, spilling the wine on my skirt. Alice gently took the cup from my trembling hands, placed it on the table, looked at me hard. Then she swallowed me in her deep embrace. I wept.
After a time, when I had exhausted myself in her warmth, she softly released her grip, as if having squeezed the pain from my body.
‘There now, girl.’ She looked into my eyes, searching for a hint of my grief. ‘What is it? Tell me now.’
My own distress did not lessen as I recounted my torment. If anything, the agony reflected in her kind face increased the hollowing misery I felt from the base of my tongue to my loins. I would not unsee in a hurry the violation I would endure. I suffered the indignity long, and many times, in that moment. How our minds can punish us like nothing else can. This pain before the deed. What pain would I endure after it was done?
I vomited suddenly, arching forward, one violent retch, the splash rebounding from the hard stone floor to catch the hem of Alice’s dress, the reddish tinge of the wine staining the linen.
Calmly she rose, and after handing me a cup of fresh water, she wiped my face clean with a soft rose-scented cloth. I felt it’s cool chill on my burning skin.
She filled a pail with sawdust from the barrel in the corner kept for the many spills which occurred in the kitchens and cellars. Scattering it around our feet, silently we watched the white purity of the sawdust darken from within, a spreading pink tinge deepening to the red.
We remained silent.
Eventually, in almost a whisper, I said, ‘If I say anything, they will kill Montmorency . . . but then Eanna will also die, and we will lose everything’
Alice, still staring at the damp sawdust, simply nodded her head.
‘What do I do?’
Alice offered nothing. When she did lift her head and turn to me, I could see the tears in her eyes.
‘Aoife,’ she said, and gripped my two hands. ‘I cannot advise you on this.’ She shook her head. ‘This decision must be yours . . . and yours alone. You will live with it, and its consequences, either way for the rest of your life.’ Letting go of my hands, she rose and stood by the fire hearth.
In that room, warmed by the glowing, summer-seasoned logs, with the woman who had become my dearest friend, almost a mother to me now, I had never felt so alone. It was the dawning of the darkness that is the solitude of life.
She slowly resumed her seat beside me and draped her arm around my hunched shoulders. My clenched hands loosened to ease a flow of colour to my fingers.
