by Kristen Cobb
“Thank you for trying.” Intense sadness overwhelmed the gratitude in Aileen’s eyes.
The woman remained gracious even in the midst of tragedy. Nessa could not help but like and respect her. “Do not give up hope just yet. She is young and strong. There is a chance she will wake.”
Aileen’s smile was forced, failing to reach her eyes. They both understood that Ceara would never wake.
Nessa turned and headed for the door, suddenly eager to escape. The oppressive feel of death washed over her again. It was more than just Ceara’s condition. The future for this family would be fraught with tragedy and death, a dark destiny she could do nothing to amend.
Laurence stood and followed her to the door. Nessa opened it without hesitation. Walking outside she immediately took a deep breath. Looking up at the sky she closed her eyes, settling a bit as the life giving sun began to warm her face. At the moment she felt surrounded by death. So many of these people would not survive Dermot’s attack and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“When were you planning on telling me about your departure? Does this have anything to do with Will?” Laurence’s voice interrupted her attempt to find some measure of inner peace.
“No. I need you to convince Rory O’Connor to take me with him back to Connaught. I want to see Conor, to make certain he is alive and unharmed.”
Laurence stared at her as if she suddenly sprouted an extra head. “There are so many reasons that is a horrible idea I am not even certain where to begin.”
“It is what I want. That is all that matters. Will you help me?” She should feel guilty about dragging Laurence into her plot but Conor’s life hung over a deep dark abyss and she would do anything to save him.
“Of course, but there is no guarantee he will allow you to travel with him or see Conor.”
“Leave that to me.” She would be traveling with Rory O’Connor whether he liked it or not.
“Perhaps Rory is the one I should worry about.” Laurence grinned at her.
Fortunately he had no idea how true a statement passed from his sainted lips as he uttered the words. Laurence was a good man, trusting by nature. She had no idea if he would ever be able to forgive her once he knew the truth. Nessa watched him for a moment, trying to keep the swell of dark thoughts from drowning her in despair.
She looked down at Donal. The boy sat in the dirt, leaning back against the cottage. She caught him quickly turn away, attempting unsuccessfully to pretend disinterest in their presence. “I need you to come with me Donal.”
The boy peered up at her, his interest clearly piqued. “Where?”
“To make a poultice for your sister’s wound. I require your assistance.” She walked away without saying another word, certain the child would follow.
Nessa continued to grind herbs with a mortar and pestle made of a dark exotic wood while waiting for the water to boil. Donal sat across the table from her. Thus far not uttering a single word.
They were sitting in the main room of a four room stone cottage on the shores of the Irish Sea. An enormous stone hearth occupied one wall. A small iron pot filled halfway with water hung over the fire. A large wooden trestle table that could seat ten occupied the middle of the room. There was a desk on the far side of the room and two benches with high wooden backs upholstered in a plush red fabric.
She had almost completely taken over one of the bedrooms for the storage of plants and other materials needed for healing. Each time Will returned on his father’s ship he would bring back a shelf, a table, or some small trinket she could use for making potions and poultices. The mortar and pestle she currently held in her hand being one of those gifts. The deep brown color of the wood was like nothing she ever laid eyes on.
Being here reminded her of Will. A light breeze blew in through the open windows bringing with it a flood of memories. Nessa met Will when she was about ten years old. They disliked each other instantly but somehow became best friends. Now Will wanted more and everything had become a big giant mess.
Will’s mother, Bevin, lived her whole life in Ireland. Garrick, Will’s father, was an English ship merchant. Garrick commissioned this cottage built for Bevin, complete with a dock for his ship within sight of the front door. She could still remember Bevin standing in that doorway, waiting for her husband’s ship to come home.
Will’s mother passed away shortly after his sixteenth birthday. Bevin had been ill for some time. She begged Nessa to help her hide it. Nothing she tried improved Bevin’s condition. Will’s mother knew she was dying but wanted the rest of her days to be filled with life rather than death. Whenever Garrick returned home Bevin would expend every bit of energy she could muster to appear healthy. Being around more than his father Will figured it out pretty early on. Nessa convinced Will to play along, pretending his mother was simply tired.
Garrick was away when Bevin finally succumbed to her illness. The man had been devastated. Irish law allowed a man to have more than one wife. They were ranked in a kind of hierarchy according to the wealth and power they brought to the marriage. Most often only wealthy men could afford to have multiple wives. Will’s English father never took to the practice. Bevin was his one true love. He adored her.
Thinking about Bevin still made her eyes fill with tears. Nessa took a deep breath and attempted to think about something else. It proved impossible. The problem being her life with Will was a living breathing entity in this house.
After Bevin’s death Will began traveling with his father. Nessa used this cottage as her home whenever she traveled to Dublin. Sometimes she came here to get away from her life of soldiers and death, an endless stream of sick and injured always arrived needing her help. Many of them could not afford the fees a real physician would charge. Nessa never asked for payment. Unfortunately she could not cure everyone. Their deaths were now an inescapable part of her life. After Bevin’s passing she considered giving up healing altogether but the people still came and she could not bring herself to turn them away.
“Is this your house?” Donal’s voice broke the silence.
“No. It belongs to a friend’s father.”
“He must be rich. This is the nicest house I have ever been in. It has more than one room.”
Donal’s matter of fact statement, devoid of awe, made her grin. “Yes, I suppose he has done rather well for himself.”
“Where is he?”
“The man who owns it?”
Donal nodded.
“He travels on a ship and lives in England.”
“Is your friend a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“Is he your husband?”
“No.” They were entering painful territory now. This was not even remotely the conversation she intended to have with him.
“Why?”
“Because he married someone else.” Nessa stopped grinding and looked at Donal. The boy seemed to have no middle speed. Either he refused to speak at all or would not stop talking. She hated to risk having him snap shut again but her life had no bearing on the current situation. A much more important issue existed that needed to be discussed. “I have answered all of your questions. Now I need you to answer a few for me. Does that sound fair?”
“I suppose.” Donal looked a bit suspicious.
“Did Ceara really fall or did you push her?”
Donal appeared almost paralyzed with fear. His reaction answered her question. The longer he sat there without answering the more convinced she became that he pushed his sister, causing her injury. The only question now, had it been an accident or done maliciously?
The boy had yet to move at all since hearing her question, peering at her with the eyes of a terrified calf about to be slaughtered.
“Did you mean to hurt her or was it an accident?”
Tears began to run down his face in rivers through the trails of dirt, a silent torrential downpour of grief. “I never meant to hurt her. I just wanted her to go away.”
“Can you
tell me what happened?”
“She kept following me, asking me to play with her.” Donal sniffled, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “I wanted to play with my friends and they laugh at me when she comes. I told her to go home but she just kept following me. I got mad and pushed her. I pushed her so hard she fell and hit her head on a big rock. I never meant to hurt her. I swear.”
Donal leaned over onto the table, face buried in his arms. Great gut wrenching sobs racked his body.
Nessa stood up, walking over to the other side of the table. Sitting down on the bench next to Donal she put her arms around him. Donal sat up and wrapped his arms around her, quickly soaking the front of her tunic with his tears.
They sat like that for some time. The steam coming out of the pot in the hearth told her the water had long since boiled and was probably nearly evaporated. Donal eventually pulled away, leaving her shirt drenched.
Donal swiped at his wet face, now red and puffy from crying. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt again then looked up at her. “Are you going to tell my parents?”
“No.” This information would only cause them more pain.
“If she dies it will be my fault.” Tears threatened to spill down his face again.
“It was an accident Donal. You did not mean to hurt her.”
“But I did.”
A lone tear slid down his cheek. She wiped it away with one of her fingers, trying to decide what to say. If his sister died, and she felt fairly certain that would be the outcome, he would have to live with the fact that he murdered her, intentional or not. If Donal let that one action define his self-concept what kind of man would he turn into? Believing himself a monster could become a self-fulfilling prophecy. We all tended to live up or down to our own expectations, becoming either the best or worst version of ourselves. “What you did was wrong. You should not have pushed your sister but that does not make you a bad person.”
“I feel like the most horrible person in the world.”
“Which proves that you are not a horrible person.” Nessa used the sleeve of her tunic to wipe away what she hoped would be the last of his tears.
“How does it prove that?” A tiny piece of the weight seemed to lift off his small shoulders. He desperately wanted to believe her. She could see him mentally clutching at the lifeline just thrown his way.
“Bad people believe it is alright for them to hurt others. They never feel guilty.” That was the best way she could think of to explain it to a boy his age.
She watched Donal mull over her statement, debating its accuracy.
“I need someone I can trust to do something for me. I think you might be just the person for the job.” The boy needed something to take his mind off the tragedy.
“Me?” Donal’s eyes opened wide.
“Most definitely. Would you be interested? It is a great responsibility but I am certain you can handle it.”
Donal nodded enthusiastically.
Nessa picked up a blackened metal key lying on the table. She looked at the key for a moment. Giving it up would put an end to a very special part of her life. Knowing it needed to be done did not lessen the pain.
She set the key down on the table in front of Donal. “I need to get that key back to the man who owns this house or his son Will. I thought maybe you could keep an eye on the place for me until their ship returns then give them the key. The ship will be right outside at the dock so you cannot possibly miss their arrival.”
“That is a very important job.” Donal sat up just a little bit straighter.
“It most certainly is. I need someone I am absolutely certain is trustworthy. Is that a job you might be interested in taking on?”
Donal looked down at the key with something akin to reverence. He gently touched the metal key then picked it up.
“He will see you now.” Albion stood perfectly still, like a stone statue, waiting for her to stand.
“Any chance you might desire a bit of support?” Seated on the ground next to her Laurence’s gentle voice provided little comfort under the circumstances. The imminent betrayal she intended made her thoroughly undeserving of his kindness. Still in his early forties, the Catholic Church promoted him to archbishop of Dublin despite his relative youth.
She most definitely did not want Laurence going in with her. The conversation she needed to have with Dermot must remain private, especially from a man in Laurence’s position. “No. This is something I must do alone.”
Nessa stood up but did not immediately walk away. She looked down at Laurence, memorizing his face, watching the warm glow of torchlight play across his features in the darkness. The betrayal she intended to set in motion would very likely tear them apart. The look of concern on his face would turn into disappointment and pain. She wanted to remember him just like this, still believing her someone he could trust without question, his blue eyes peering up at her, sparkling with love and devotion.
Forcing herself to walk away she turned and headed toward Dermot’s tent. Albion walked silently next to her. A large man with an angry demeanor he had never been much for small talk, which suited her just fine at the moment.
They came straight to Dermot’s camp after she created the poultice for Ceara. There was no time to waste. Rory O’Connor and his army would be leaving soon, her one and only chance to save Conor disappearing with him.
Richard deClare appeared in the entrance of the tent as she approached. The Norman warlord’s presence made her consistently uneasy. Dermot brought the foreigners to Ireland as mercenaries to help him regain control of Leinster. The problem, as she saw it, being this man would want more than payment for services rendered. He seemed ambitious on a grand scale and that made her incredibly nervous.
The Norman warlord was not wearing the full body armor his people seemed to be so fond of. The Irish wore no such protection in battle. She could not imagine fighting while covered head to toe in metal. Richard deClare did not even glance her way as he passed. Dermot gave the man his daughter Aoife as a token of good faith. They were married shortly after the foreigners stepped off the boat. Aoife had always felt like a sister to her. She could only hope deClare would be kind although it seemed highly unlikely. Perhaps she should refrain from judging the man without actually knowing him but this whole situation had her seeing doom and gloom everywhere.
Albion opened one of the tent flaps. She walked in, closing the flap behind her. Dermot was seated at a table in the middle of the tent. Three candles burned in a candelabrum in the center of the finely crafted, but well used, oak trestle table. A simple cot, barely large enough for one person, resided in a far corner of the tent. A bag containing Dermot’s clothes sat on the ground at the foot of the cot. A map of Dublin was laid out on the table. Nessa sat down across from Dermot, an imposing heavily muscled man even at the age of seventy. His hair turned grey some years ago making him appear all of his seventy years.
“Is Asculf ready to surrender?” Dermot’s blue-eyed gaze blazed with something nearing joy as he awaited her response.
“No. I told him we would be attacking the city and taking it back by force.”
“Foolish but so be it.” Dermot stared intently into her eyes for a moment, searching for an answer to his next question. They both knew what the topic would be. “Have you thought about my proposal?”
Dermot’s proposal being that she assassinate Rory O’Connor. All things considered it was an excellent plan. Never one to let an opportunity slip through his fingers Dermot’s maniacal brain concocted the idea as soon as he heard Rory would be heading back to Connaught.
The plan was relatively simple. Laurence would take her to Rory’s camp, asking that she be allowed to see Conor. She would claim that in order to continue honoring the treaty Dermot needed to confirm that his son remained safe and well cared for. In actuality Dermot had no intention of honoring the treaty.
Rory O’Connor was known throughout Ireland to be rather fond of women. Dermot wanted h
er to seduce Rory in order to gain intimate access to him. The plan required she wait until Dermot raided into Connaught, breaking the treaty beyond repair, then poison Rory.
After assassinating the high-king she would of course flee immediately and locate Dermot’s camp. After leading Dermot and his army to Conor, together they would bring his son back to Leinster. Dermot would become high-king of Ireland and save Conor at the same time, one of those things being far more important to him than the other.
Dermot watched her with a disconcerting intensity. “I know it is a lot to ask but it is the only way to save Conor.”
“You could honor the treaty.” Unfortunately Dermot’s word had never been something to be counted on. It was rather surprising that Rory O’Connor entered into the treaty with him at all.
“We have discussed this at length. I will not recognize that man as king of Ireland. He is a pathetic excuse for a warrior and not fit to defend a cow let alone a country.” Dermot was obviously trying to control his anger, although not doing a very good job of it, frustration clearly relayed by his fiery gaze.
“Even though I have told you about Conor’s execution. My visions are never wrong. I warned you before you handed him over as part of the treaty. I begged you not to do it.” Nessa loved Dermot like a father. She owed him a great deal but was absolutely appalled at how he used his children as objects to be bartered in getting what he wanted. Love and devotion did not blind her to his flaws.
“And I told you that hostages are never killed. There is nothing to worry about.” His patience seemed to be wearing thin. They’d been having this same argument for months.
“They do however routinely have their eyes plucked out when a treaty is broken. Conor will never become high-king of Ireland if he is blinded. You have already relegated one son to that fate, would you seriously do it to another.” The king of Ossory blinded his son Eanna when Dermot broke their treaty. They plucked both of Eanna’s eyes out.
“All the more reason for you to implement my plan.”
“So you get to be high-king of Ireland?”