‘Aoife, only you can decide; your blood will present you with many unpalatable choices in life. However, whatever you decide will be the right thing for you to do.’
Then, wishing to ease my anguish a little, she continued.
‘For what it’s worth, there are those in priestly robes who will say that a woman’s virtue should never be willingly compromised . . . a sin of the highest order, they will say.’ She paused now.
‘If they have stood over their child’s grave, as I have, I will listen. If not, they should wrap their certainties in their priestly garbs and, how do I put this politely, depart . . . they know not of what they speak.’
That faint light which lit one path offered some guidance as to what I already knew I must do.
‘Alice. I need lavender scent.’
However, I also knew that one day I would murder Montmorency. I needed him now to make sure that army came to Ireland to save Eanna. That done, I would kill him.
I never spoke again before I left my chamber to go to his quarters. Alice had knocked on my door and entered silently. Never catching my eye, she washed me from a large pail of lukewarm water she carried from the cauldron in the kitchen. Steering me to the small, cushioned stool by the fire, she stood behind me, combing my hair. The slow rhythmic pull of the comb and her fingertips caressing my scalp produced a soothing trancelike calm.
I stood naked and she caressed the lavender scent along my neck, over my shoulders, between my breasts. Raising my arms, summoning a childhood memory evoked by the smothering motherly care, she draped a beautiful ankle-length muslin chemise over my shoulders, lacing the short ribbons at my neck. Wordlessly.
Producing a damask gown with ornate embroidery, discarded by some noble lady visitor to the castle or a mistress Strongbow, she turned me and laced the cords at the small of my back.
‘You will wear these garments once and only once. You will return directly to my cellar when it is over. There I will bathe you and we will burn these and all they are in the fire. It will be done then.’ Again, she would not catch my eye.
Fetching a pair of bright yellow slippers, she knelt and slipped them onto my feet. I steadied myself with my hand on her shoulder.
She rose and busied herself with her boxes. ‘Strongbow is now with the king’s messenger. They are dining in the hall above the kitchens.’ She paused, caught my gaze briefly before turning quickly away. ‘It is time.’ She sat on the stool, almost with her back to me, stony-faced. She would not be the one to weaken my resolve. I knew she felt the revulsion as much as, if not more than, I.
Tightly clasping my long cloak to my neck against the wintry chill and pulling the hood, I lifted the latch and left.
The wind held Strongbow’s swallow-tailed banners pointing south. I hugged the north wall of the middle bailey against the intermittent flurries of rain, which pounced every time I lifted my head. I could feel the pebbles through the thin soles of Alice’s parlour slippers.
I hurried, not wanting to meet anyone. My long cloak hid my dress and slippers, hardly appropriate for the battlements, but nothing could mask my dread to any but the blind.
The hooded crows screeched mockingly, unseen from the heights of the Great Tower as I passed from the courtyard, through the arched gate and into the narrow gallery that ran along its north side. The torchlight reflected from the stone arch as I approached, heightening the blackness beyond. A large crow, taken by the wind, almost caught my hood before recovering itself and squawking noisily, careening skyward. There were no chattering swallows to guide my path on this dark winter’s evening. I would walk this path alone.
The long arcaded gallery was unlit. Connecting the upper and middle baileys of the castle, the weakly pointed openings overlooking the river took little light from the night. Through the open door at the far end, I could see the well-lit courtyard beyond, along with the winch for the stone cistern that stood at the base of the cliff. The cistern had been built above the high-tide waterline to catch the fresh water flowing from a vigorous spring. Lack of water being the greatest threat to the defenders of a castle under siege, it readily provided a secure supply for the garrison’s needs.
Sharply framed in the light of the doorway, I could see the large bucket used to carry the water dangling there, buffeted by the wind, sounding a hollow thump against the timber frame. A recurring, rhythmic drumbeat accompanying my slowing footsteps, my sinking heart.
I sensed a presence in the impenetrable darkness of the corridor. Turning from the river, it was upon me before I knew, the scarce light catching a buckle, a touch of skin. Moving towards me, with the advantage of the light, the bulk reached out. I recoiled and almost stumbled against the wall. I felt hands grip my shoulders.
‘M’lady. Forgive me, I startled you.’
Strongbow said this with an even voice, but whether it was a trick of the moving light and shadow or something else, his eyes blazed with a depth of anger over a hard-set grimace I had not seen before. His tight grip betrayed the intensity within. I saw an acidity in that anger, a threatening bitterness of barely suppressed violence. His grip tightened, his eyes flickering amongst options. I braced myself.
He loosened his grip.
‘Aoife, I’m glad you’re here . . . and now.’
He took me by the arm and led me through the doorway into the light of the courtyard, out of earshot form the Great Tower and any guards who might be lurking in the shadows. Satisfied we were alone, he turned to me.
‘I had to leave the table. I couldn’t contain my anger. However, I couldn’t show it either.’ He paced before me; suppressing the venom in his voice to a whisper, he told me of the king’s continuing animosity towards him. In spite of his having spent the greater part of the previous year escorting the king’s daughter to her marriage to the king of Saxony, or of his constant presence at court to do the king’s bidding, or of his having brought his followers to Northumbria to suppress some recalcitrant nobles, the king steadfastly refused to relinquish his enmity towards him. It was impossible.
The king, through his messenger, had again refused to recognise his title as Earl of Pembroke and, outrageously, had openly spoken of his musings on granting the title and lands to more favoured lords in his court. The atmosphere at the table in the dining hall was tense. Sir Raymond Le Gross, Sir Robert FitzStephen and Sir Maurice FitzGerald were all present. They had come in hope of a truly deserved return to favour for Strongbow, which would revive the prospects for our entire camp. They now sat, stony-faced to the last, appalled by the maddening stubbornness of the king, whose bitterness was destroying any prospects for a revival for any of their fortunes. After many years of such ill treatment by the king, if their loyalty was to be forever spurned, what was the point in it?
‘I know exactly what they are all thinking in there.’ Strongbow’s frustration was evident.
‘One wrong word from me, and it will be open rebellion. That bastard lackey of the king, who seems to be enjoying this, will be sucking his balls for dessert if he’s not careful.’
Recovering himself, he continued. ‘Sorry, Aoife, forgive me. I shouldn’t use such intemperate language with a lady.’
‘I have heard worse, m’lord.’ I smiled.
Pausing, he turned to me, regarding me closely, then he laughed. A gentleness returned to his face as he approached and, smiling, took my hands.
‘Aoife, when I first met you over two years ago, you were a child. Before me now, I see a woman. A woman of great beauty with greater depth in your eyes. You have a strength I have not seen before.’ He paused now, as if measuring each of his next words. He was a man of great honour, and once his word was given, it would never be retracted.
‘Aoife. I will come to Ireland. On that, you have my word. I will be honoured . . . privileged that you will be my wife. Together we will build a kingdom. But for now, I must go back to this king’s bastard and feign loyalty. That I must do until the time is right.’
And with that he was gone from the light of the courtyard, back through the door leading through the gallery to the middle bailey.
I stood alone, numbed, staring at his receding silhouette passing through the long dark corridor. A drop, another, a patter, then a loud crack of thunder and a deluge poured from unseen clouds in the ink-black sky. I was instantly drenched in its intensity. Throwing back my hood, I craned my neck to feel the force of the heavy drops hitting my face, my lips, my eyelids, rivulets filling my ears and streaming chillingly yet refreshingly down my neck, around my breasts, over my belly, my loins, down my legs. I looked down to see the delicate yellow slippers filled with the stream of water, lavender-fragranced water, washed, cleaned from my body into the earth. I would detest the smell of that flower for as long as I lived.
Inhaling deeply of the rich earthly dampness a rainfall rises, my eye caught a dark form standing in the grey shadows on the wooden landing at the top of the stairs. Montmorency stood watching me. How long he had been there and what he had heard, I did not know. Pausing for a moment more, he turned and was briefly framed in the doorway by the light from the fire within before he was gone.
I burst through the door of Alice’s cellar, trailing a stream of water, and threw myself into her arms. Eventually calming me and extracting the course of events since I had left her not long before, she was overjoyed. We first cried and then laughed. We laughed more and celebrated my good fortune, that lucky turn of fate. When Rob and Ewan returned, Myler was with them. Seeing me there, they at first moved to leave immediately, but Alice happily insisted they remain and join us in some ale and wine to see the evening out.
