The way she fitted in with his people, engaging in their everyday tasks, made him realise that she could belong here. She knew their language, and there was none of the cool demeanour of a Norman noblewoman. Already they did not view her as an outsider—a fact that troubled him.
She saw him and raised a hand in greeting. Bevan nodded in acknowledgement, but returned to the fortress without speaking to her. He entered the Great Chamber and went above stairs, to the old chamber he’d once shared with his wife.
He had never considered that she might make changes to Rionallís. The original bed was gone, and in its place stood a smaller one. The wooden frame was new, along with the coverings.
The tapestries were gone, too—the ones Fiona had woven with her own hands, working long hours, sometimes into the night. He remembered coming up behind her to steal a kiss while her fingers worked on the loom.
His memories had been stripped away, leaving behind only poor substitutes. The walls were bare, the room devoid of any decoration. Hurt and resentment rose up within him. Had they sold the tapestries? What had happened to the bed where he used to fall asleep with Fiona’s warmth pressed against him? Their child had been conceived in that bed, and now it was gone.
Moments later the door opened, and Genevieve stood at the entrance. She offered a smile of greeting. ‘Good morn to you.’
‘Where is the bed?’ he asked. ‘And the tapestries?’
Her smile faded. When she did not answer, he gripped her by the shoulders. ‘Where are they?’
‘I know not where the tapestries are,’ she said. His fingers tightened upon her, his fury so great he knew his grip would bruise her delicate skin.
‘I ordered the bed destroyed,’ she said. ‘I told them to burn it.’
Burned. He couldn’t understand why she would do such a thing. He should never have given this chamber to her. It would have been better to lock it up, giving him at least one place where he could hold fast to his memories.
Now they were gone, seared into ashes. All because of her orders. Bevan closed his eyes and released her. He feared what he might do, and so he stepped away.
‘Why?’ he demanded.
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Because I couldn’t face it again. I could never lie there with you without remembering the way Hugh used to beat me.’
‘I never intended to lie with you,’ he said coldly.
Her face blanched, and she swiped at the tears. For a moment it was as if he were standing outside his body, as another person. He knew his words cut her deeply, but he could not stop them.
‘Leave me,’ he said, his voice weary. ‘And make no more changes here. This is my home, and I want it the way it was.’
When she did not move, he shouted, ‘Go!’
She fled, and he buried his face in his hands. He regretted marrying her, letting her make changes. Rionallís was not, and never would be, the same.
* * *
Genevieve sat beside her parents at the midday meal, the food tasting like dust in her mouth. Bevan’s rebuke had hurt, and she could not anticipate what else might provoke his temper.
She endured another hour of the meal, forcing herself to drink a goblet of elderberry wine. Her mother retired up to her chamber, and Thomas de Renalt reached out to touch Genevieve’s hand.
‘So glum are you? Is aught the matter? Did he harm you?’
An embarrassed look crossed her father’s face at the mention of her wedding night. The servants had shown him the sheets, and she knew the bloodstains had satisfied him. Even so, guilt suffused her at the deception.
She shook her head. ‘He did not harm me, Papa.’
‘The Irishman will make a good husband for you, I am certain,’ her father stated. ‘His fighting skills are legendary among his people.’
‘He was forced to wed me,’ she said. ‘What kind of a beginning to marriage is that?’
‘Some of the best marriages have inauspicious beginnings,’he commented. ‘And they turn out rather well in spite of them. Give it time, Genevieve. You shall remain here, and King Henry will have loyal Normans near to him whenever he has the need.’
A bitterness rose up within her. ‘Aye, I will remain here. Wed to a man who despises me.’
‘Now, now. You are a grown woman, Genevieve. Not a child. Sulking does not become you.’
She knew he was right, and he successfully coaxed a smile. ‘Will you stay for a time?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Henry has ordered our return to England within a sennight. But I will send a servant to you—one who will summon your mother and me if MacEgan lays a finger upon you.’
‘Bevan would never do that,’ Genevieve said. ‘He nearly killed Hugh for harming me.’
The Earl gave a nod of approval, laying a hand upon her shoulder. ‘I am sorry for what happened. Had I known of it sooner I would have come for you. You must know this.’
Genevieve bowed her head, hiding the tears that threatened. He squeezed her hand. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Genevieve, with a loving heart. Go to your husband. Show him who you are.’
‘It will be all right,’ she said wearily.
Her father smiled. ‘You will conquer this warrior’s heart, my Genevieve. Of that I have no doubt.’
Genevieve embraced him, and he tapped her chin with his finger. ‘We depart on the morrow for England. Should you need us, you have only to send word.’
With her father’s strong arms around her, she took comfort. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
‘Now, off with you.’ Her father gave a wave of dismissal. ‘I intend to sample this fine poteen before your mother finds out.’ He took a sip of the strong liquor, coughing while raising a toast to her.
‘I’ll send a barrel home with you,’ Genevieve promised.
‘You are my most beloved daughter,’ he sighed, downing another sip.
* * *
Bevan did not sleep in their chamber that night, and Genevieve slept poorly. She tossed upon the straw mattress while imagining him in his own chamber, thankful to be away from her.
The following morn she said farewell to her parents, and her mother promised to visit again in the spring. Lord Thomas had teased about grandchildren, and Genevieve had struggled to maintain her smile. There would be no children in her future. Not with Bevan.
After they had gone, she busied herself with tasks around the fortress. Her arms strained as she struggled to lift a heavy sack of grain. She had long since dried her tears, and vowed she would not pity herself. She had married Bevan knowing he did not want a wife. The hard labour kept her mind from the sorrow coiling around her heart.
‘Put that down, Lady Genevieve!’A barrel-shaped woman with speckled raven hair swatted at Genevieve with a rag. ‘We’ve men for lifting heavy things.’
‘I can manage,’ Genevieve said. She dragged the sack of grain into a corner, her arms burning with the effort.
‘’Tis not your place to do such work,’ the woman argued. ‘Ye could injure a babe, if ye’ve one started.’
‘There will be no babe,’ she said dully.
She thought of young Declan, his baby softness nestled against her cheek, and the raw ache threatened to consume her. Why had she ever thought she could gain Bevan’s affections? He had been honest with her from the first moment. She would never win his heart, and it was useless to try.
‘Oh, there’ll be a babe, sure enough. Those MacEgan men…’ The woman gave an appreciative sigh. ‘There’s not a woman I know of who can resist them. It’s lucky ye are, being wed to Bevan. He’s a good master, and a fair man. Much better than that Norman ye were betrothed to.’ The woman spat on the ground in memory.
Genevieve braved a smile. ‘Aye, you are right. What is your name?’
‘I am Mairi.’
Genevieve clasped Mairi’s hands in greeting. ‘I am glad to meet you.’
Mairi led Genevieve by the hand. ‘The women and I wondered about ye. We saw what Marstowe did, and I hope his soul burns for
it. But there was naught any of us could do.’ She crossed herself. ‘He’d only have killed another innocent.’
‘Another?’
‘Tá. He had poor Maureen killed when she told him where Bevan had taken you. The bastard.’ Mairi led Genevieve outside, handing her a brat. She accepted the long length of wool, wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘Ye must cover up, for ’tis quite cold.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To visit the tenants. They’re eager to meet ye, as I was. We never had the chance when ye were betrothed to that demon.’ With a nudge, Mairi added, ‘They want to know what sort of woman would wed our Bevan.’
‘A foolish one,’ Genevieve said. ‘I am a MacEgan now, but his name is all I have.’
‘Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?’ Mairi said, pulling Genevieve into the inner bailey. The icy air sliced against her face, and she pulled her brat tighter around her shoulders. ‘If ye want a good marriage, heed my advice. Be a strong woman and know your own mind. When ye have your own happiness, a happy marriage ye’ll make. There’s no quicker way to lose a man than to chase after him. Make him come after ye. That’s what I say.’
‘Are you married?’ Genevieve asked.
Mairi laughed. ‘Five times, counting this last one. I’ve buried four of them, God rest their souls. But those that died, died happy. A good romp in the bedchamber keeps a man faithful.’
Genevieve blushed at the bawdy reference. When they reached the stables, Mairi told the groom to bring out a horse for Genevieve. ‘What about you?’ Genevieve asked.
‘I’ve no need for a horse. I’ll walk. But, as the lady of Rionallís, you should ride.’
Genevieve shook her head, dismissing the groom. ‘I’ll walk alongside you.’ She thought she detected a glimmer of approval in Mairi’s eyes.
As they journeyed towards the tenant farms, Mairi pointed out the names of the people, adding gossip whenever she could.
Genevieve saw an expanse of farmland, neatly divided into smaller plots with thatched cottages. Herds of cattle and pigs huddled around grain that had been set out for them in wooden troughs amidst the snow. One tenant broke a layer of ice over the water in another trough. He smiled and waved at Mairi as they passed.
Genevieve wanted to meet them and grow better acquainted. An idea occurred to her, and she stopped walking. ‘We’ve not decorated Rionallís,’ she said. ‘Alban Arthuan is past, but we’ve not had any feasting or celebrations here for Christmas. With all that’s happened, I did not think of it.’
Mairi brightened. ‘You are right, my lady. I’ll bring some girls up to help. A celebration is exactly what ye need to take your mind off of the troubles ye have.’
‘Call me Genevieve,’ she said. A part of her warmed at the idea of decorating the Great Chamber for the Christmas celebration. ‘Is there anyone here who could play music this eve?’
She remembered the harp she had played at Laochre, and longing rose up at the memory. Bevan had not seemed to mind, but she grew nervous at the thought of playing before the Irish people. Perhaps they would not like her songs.
No, it was best to let others play. She would enjoy their songs and learn them when she could.
‘Every man here thinks himself a musician,’ Mairi said, rolling her eyes. ‘But I’ll see if Eoin can bring his pipes. Do not ask him to sing, though.’
Genevieve hugged her brat around herself, brimming with excitement. She would not let Bevan’s anger diminish the celebration. But there was one way to ease his ill spirits.
‘Do you know where the women put the tapestries that used to hang in my chamber?’ Genevieve asked. Mairi nodded. ‘Bring them. We’ll hang them in the Great Chamber.’
She could do that much for Bevan, by way of apology. But she refused to have any trace of Fiona or Hugh in their chamber. She would begin weaving tapestries of her own, adorning the chamber with wall hangings that had no memories save the new ones she would make.
Mairi was right. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Genevieve supervised the decorating of the Great Chamber, while outside another winter storm raged. She had not seen Bevan since that morn, and she suspected he was avoiding her.
She had arranged for Fiona’s tapestries to be hung on the back wall of the Chamber. She spread garlands of holly and greenery around the room, placing candles in the windows to light the path of the Holy Child. The cook had agreed to roast a suckling pig and to prepare salmon, lamb, and salted eels for the feast. Her father had replenished the stores of food depleted by Hugh and his men as part of her wedding gifts. Bevan had given twenty horses, several barrels of poteen, and gifts of silver as her bride price. The silver would satisfy her mother, Genevieve knew.
A maid had brought forth elderberry wine, mead, and poteen from the cellar, to quench the thirst of the guests. For dessert, Genevieve had the cook prepare cakes dripping with honey and finely chopped hazelnuts.
Mairi had introduced her to some of the tenants’ wives, and Genevieve befriended them as they worked alongside one another, adding festive touches to the Great Chamber. They spoke not of her betrothal to Hugh, and for that she was grateful.
Hugh had never allowed her to leave Rionallís, claiming that as a noblewoman she had no place among the freemen. She had tried to protest that as the lady of the castle it was her duty. The argument had earned her another beating, and so she had held her tongue while the steward performed her duties.
Now, she recognised that it had been yet another way to hold her prisoner. Hugh had trusted none of the Irish, and Genevieve knew his reputation was that of a cold-hearted Gaillabh—a Norman outsider.
Behind her, she heard Ewan chattering to Bevan, boasting of his new skills in swordplay. Genevieve busied herself adjusting a garland, wondering what her husband would say when he saw their decorations. His gaze travelled the length of the room, surveying her handiwork.
When he saw the tapestries, she noticed a change coming over him, a subtle relaxation of his features. His eyes met hers, and Genevieve sensed forgiveness in the nod of greeting.
‘The tenants are going to celebrate Christmas with us this eve,’ she said. ‘Will you come?’ She hoped that he would not deny her the chance to welcome the people.
He seemed agreeable. ‘Tá, I will come.’
‘Good.’
The discomfort stretched on, and finally Genevieve excused herself to finish the decorating. Bevan did not stay to watch, and she felt relieved without his eyes watching every move.
At last, Genevieve dismissed the ladies to prepare for the feast. Ewan hung around, casting glances at an auburn-haired girl with deep brown eyes. The girl ignored him, and Genevieve pitied Ewan’s lovesick expression. He consoled himself by snatching a honey cake from a platter.
‘Those are for the celebration tonight,’ Genevieve reminded him. Ewan started to put it back, but she shook her head. ‘Just the one.’
He nodded his thanks and devoured it, licking his fingertips. A servant interrupted Genevieve moments later, giving her a small folded parchment sealed with wax.
She thanked him and broke the seal. Inside no words were written, but a frayed blue ribbon fell out. She recognised the token immediately. It was a ribbon Hugh had given her once, from when he had courted her affections.
It was a reminder. A chilling one. He had not gone to England, as ordered.
‘Did you see who sent this?’ she asked the servant.
The servant shook his head. ‘One of the tenant’s children gave it to me. It was given to him by a messenger he did not recognise.’
A shadow crossed over her chair, and Genevieve saw Ewan standing before her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It is from Hugh,’ she answered, showing him the ribbon.
Ewan straightened and rested his hand upon his sword, as if poised for a fight. ‘Has he threatened you?’
‘No.’ Genevieve did not know what Hugh intended by the ribbon, but she
would not allow him to frighten her. She rose to her feet and moved towards the hearth. Tossing the ribbon into the flames, she watched as it curled and caught flame. ‘We will let the matter rest.’
‘Bevan should know of this.’
‘No.’ Genevieve knew the ribbon was meant to cause her fear. She had no desire for Bevan to track down Sir Hugh and risk further injury. Her marriage had ended any threat Hugh might have posed.
‘You are certain you do not wish for me to find out why he sent it?’ Ewan asked.
‘It’s part of the past now.’ As the ribbon darkened into ashes, she resolved not to think of it again. She would host the Christmas celebration, and in time Hugh would understand that she was not going to allow her past to rule the future.
* * *
When the roasted pig’s bones lay exposed, the tender meat devoured until only fragments remained, all gathered around to hear the stories of Trahern MacEgan. He had spent the past few months travelling across Éireann, and had only just returned home. Bevan had invited him to share in their Christmas celebration.
Solid as an oak, Trahern had a curling black beard and long locks that fell across his shoulders. His chest was so large, no woman there could span it with her arms, and he had encouraged all to try. Genevieve had been embarrassed, but had joined in on the fun when urged by Ewan.
‘How many brothers do you have?’ she asked Bevan when he joined in the merriment. ‘I thought I’d met all of you.’
‘There are five of us living,’ he said. ‘Our eldest brother, Liam, died in battle years ago. Patrick is now the eldest, then me, then Trahern, Connor, and Ewan.’ He settled back into a chair while Trahern began his stories.
‘Six sons,’ she mused, dropping her voice lower so as not to interrupt the tale. ‘Most fathers would be pleased at that. No daughters?’
Bevan shook his head. ‘My mother kept hoping, but God saw fit to give her us.’ He passed her a full cup of mead, taking a swallow from his own goblet. ‘What about you? Have you brothers or sisters?’
She nodded. ‘Two brothers. James is the eldest, then Michael.’ She took a deep sip of mead. ‘It’s a good thing Michael was in Scotland and didn’t know what Hugh did to me. He has a vicious temper.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 69