Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  He turned to look at the leaping flames. His answer was bitter, defeated. “I want no English dog to claim my keep.”

  When I did not speak, he turned to go. “My lord.” I hesitated. How many times had I made my request only to have him reject it? He stood tall and straight, his eyes once again on my face. “My lord,” I began again, “I ask your leave to go with my brother to France.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not well.”

  Fear replaced the wariness in his eyes. He reached for me, but I backed away and leaned against the railing.

  I shook my head. “Nay, ’tis not what you think. My body serves me well. ’Tis my soul that sickens. I am no longer a wife, Rory. You have put me away without a child to comfort me.”

  The accusation was unfair. Even I knew it.

  “I gave you nine bairns, Nuala. Even the church can expect no more of us.”

  Simply, brutally, I meant to hurt him. “They died.”

  He nodded. “Aye. No one is to blame. ’Tis sometimes the way.”

  He was very much to blame as was every Irish lord who refused submission to Elizabeth. But I would not win him back by reminding him of what he already knew. “You have no heirs,” I said instead.

  He refused to meet my eyes. “I have lost Tirconnaill. I have no need of heirs.”

  “Liar.”

  Furious, he looked up. “I know your mind, Nuala. But it will never be. I will not risk your life. You heard the physician. Another child will kill you.”

  I looked down into the calm waters of the bay, counting the ripples from our wake. “I’ve heard of herbs—”

  He refused to listen. “Nay. Holy church condemns it. I’ll not have your death on my hands.”

  “The choice should be mine.”

  “Nuala! By the blood of Christ. This world holds nothing for me without you.”

  “I want a child, Rory. Every woman wants a child.”

  His hands tightened around the railing. “I need you. We will make our lives in Rome. I am the earl of Tirconnaill, a fighter, not a courtier.”

  I knew how hard it was for him to beg. I would have stopped him, but he went on as if in opening his heart he must empty it. “If you will not stay for me, Nuala, stay for our people. The Romans will think us barbarians without you.”

  Could this man I loved more than my own life be such a fool? “I am the daughter of Irish barbarians, Rory O’Donnell, no different from you. Your words are not what a woman would hear.”

  His hands reached out to hold me. For a long moment he looked at me, saying nothing. What did he see, this man who knew my face better than he knew his own? Did he see me as I was, or did he remember the girl of years ago, the child bride with her laughing, berry-stained mouth, her thin, high-bridged nose and the carven, sharp-cheeked beauty of small bones under lightly freckled skin? Once, long ago, he claimed that the Madonna herself could not have been more lovely. What, now, did he see in the woman he’d wagered a kingdom for?

  He spoke slowly, haltingly. “If it is words you need, Nuala, hear them now. Even before I saw you, I loved you. Tirconnaill was your bride price. After the betrayal of Chichester and Maguire, when I alone stood by your father, he asked my pardon for demanding my lineage. But know this. I would do no differently were he to ask again.”

  There was more that needed saying, but I did not expect to hear it. Still, he spoke on.

  “Do you know why I left you untouched for more than a year after our wedding?”

  “You said I was too young for bedding and too small for bairns.”

  He smiled. “Nay, love. That was pride, not truth. I feared that you would find me wanting, that I was not man enough for the daughter of Aedh Ruadh O’Neill. Not until you demanded that I leave off my wenching and make you a wife did I come to you. It was past time. I burned for wanting you but still I was afraid. You welcomed me and that night I learned what it was to love.” His voice was hoarse and earnest. “Do not ask to leave me.”

  Unchecked, the tears streamed down my face. I, Nuala, who never cried, turned away. “I want to feel our bodies joined in the act of love, Rory. I want a child. A woman is nothing without a child.”

  Smothering an expletive, he released me. “Have mercy, Nuala. I love you. You are my wife, and I will have no hand in your murder.”

  I grew weary of words. There was nothing left to say. I stood my ground, a slight, small-boned woman against the Lion of Ireland. “I will not bargain, Rory. You know my mind.”

  I saw the rage unleash within him as if my words had been the key that unlocked the floodgates. “Do you threaten me, my lady?”

  I refused to answer, refused to look away.

  Reaching behind my head, he threaded his fingers through my hair. Under the flickering torchlight, I saw his eyes glitter with something dark and terrifying, something that had no place in the life we shared. I tried to move back, but he would not allow it. He twisted my hair around his fingers so that my head was held immobile.

  “How much of this do you think I can take? Or is that your game, to wear me down until I break from the coldness you show me?”

  I said nothing. He cursed again, using words he had never before spoken in my presence. I had pushed him too far, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of my husband.

  “You win, Nuala. We shall play the game your way. If you want this, you shall have it.” He pulled me roughly against him. Lowering his head, he teased my mouth with the tip of his tongue.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for his anger to dissipate, willing the husband I knew to return to me. His mouth was warm on my throat and his free hand roamed my body, settling on my breasts.

  He lifted me into his arms, taking me down the darkness of a long hall and through the low-hung cabin door, where he dropped me on the bed and began shedding his clothes. A single candle burned on the mantel. I could barely make out his outline. I pulled off my dress and shoes and was struggling with my laces when he joined me in the bed. Without speaking, he tore the knots of my undergarments and threw them on the floor. Then he turned to me. “I ask you one last time, Nuala. I am no saint and will not turn back. Are you willing, knowing what the end will be?”

  I trembled with anticipation and fear. This was my husband and yet he was not as I remembered. It had been years since we shared a bed. I had borne ten children and my body was no longer firm and supple. I had no wish to be compared to the woman I once was and found wanting. Still, I could not change the past. It was this or nothing. Resting my lips on his chest, I spoke against his skin. “I am willing, my lord, if you are.”

  A harsh, wordless sound rose up from his throat. I touched his cheek. It was wet. Shocked, I sat up and peered at him through the darkness. Only once before had I witnessed my husband’s tears. “There is no need to weep, my love.”

  “Don’t do this, Nuala,” he whispered. “Don’t make me do this.”

  With soothing hands, I stroked his brow, drying his cheeks with my hair. “Hush,” I murmured. My hands moved slowly, coaxingly, down his body. “We were made for this. There is no other way for us.”

  His hands were still as skilled, his mouth as firm and tender as I remembered. He was immediately and powerfully erect and when he came inside me and our passion rose together, I knew that it was right and that Rory knew it too. Nothing mattered but this. Ireland would survive. Rory would survive and, when my time was at hand, there would be no regrets, for I would be with him always.

  *

  Belfast, 1995

  Meghann looked at her watch impatiently and rolled down the window of her automobile. The prison swarmed with visitors and she’d waited for nearly thirty minutes in the queue to enter the gates. Armed RUC and British soldiers stood at the checkpoints screening all visitors as if each one had an explosive strapped to his shoe. It was nearly marching season in the north, that time of tension when Protestants celebrated the victory of William of Orange by marching through the streets of heavily populated Catholic areas,
banging their drums and singing “God Save the Queen,” proclaiming their God-given right to control the territory.

  After the Protestants marched, the Catholics rioted. Burned-out lorries and hijacked cars blocked every major motorway, and swarms of pierced and tattooed young people who cared nothing about nationalism, except as an excuse to vandalize the premises of hardworking families, prowled the deserted streets. It was always the same, this dreadful two weeks in July. The RUC forced the marches through and then brought out the batons to beat the inevitable looters.

  She inched her car forward. A pleasant, round-faced young man with the bright yellow vest of the RUC poked his head in the window. “What is your business here, Miss?”

  “Counsel for a prisoner.”

  “May I see your papers, please.”

  Meghann handed over her documents. The man perused each one carefully before allowing her to pass. She parked and locked the car. Hitching her briefcase over her shoulder, Meghann walked through the security detection device, submitted to the tentative frisking by a woman guard and was ushered into a room with a table, two chairs, and reinforced glass panels. Outside, three more guards stood at attention.

  A man with a thick neck and meaty hands led Michael into the room, pushed him down into one of the chairs and uncuffed him. Meghann sat down across from Michael and waited until the guard left the room before speaking. “Are you all right? You look too thin and terribly pale.”

  He grinned, leaned across the table and bussed her cheek. “That’s what you said last week. Nothing ever changes in here, except perhaps a wee bit more excitement due to the season. What about yourself?”

  She hesitated. The latest development wasn’t good. She wanted to look at him first, to gauge his reactions, to satisfy herself that he still thought the decision to return and face his trial had been the right one. Meghann knew that if she hadn’t been involved, Michael might have taken another road. Escaped prisoners with new identities were living out their lives quite comfortably overseas and in the Republic. There were times, like this one, when she wished she had advised him differently.

  Meghann opened her briefcase and pulled out a manila file, avoiding his probing gaze. “There’s a situation we’ve got to sort out, Mick. Do you know Danny O’Rourke and Patrick Feeney?”

  He nodded. “Aye. They’re intelligence, not insiders but close enough.”

  “They were arrested three weeks ago. Since then they’ve confessed to furnishing information that led to the Killingsworth murder.” Meghann paused and drew a deep breath.

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What is it that you aren’t telling me?”

  “They claim that Killingsworth was too important a target to be taken out by anyone other than an experienced man, someone implicitly trusted by everyone at the top levels of the organization.” She raised her eyes to his face. “They’ve named you, Michael.”

  He was quiet for a long time. “Poor blokes,” he said at last. “I wonder what was done to them.”

  “Your trial is scheduled for Thursday. Bruises wouldn’t heal by then. More likely they were promised immunity.”

  “I could use a smoke.”

  Meghann pulled out two packs of American filtered cigarettes and a book of matches from her briefcase and pushed them across the table. “These will shorten your life, you know.”

  He struck a match, brought it to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply before lifting mocking blue eyes to her face. “Pardon me if that’s the least of my concerns at the moment. In case it hasn’t occurred t’ you yet, Meggie, love, I’m as good as dished.”

  “That’s not true,” she said defensively, standing up to pace the floor and rub her arms. “I’ve enough evidence to discredit the glassmaker, and I’ll discredit Feeney and O’Rourke as well.”

  Michael watched her cross the tiny room, stop briefly at the window, turn and go back the way she came. Her hands were clasped tightly together and her knuckles showed white beneath her skin. She was wound tight as a spring. He ached to touch her, but the three peelers posted outside the windows discouraged him. Instead he spoke softly. “Something is troubling you, Meghann. What is it?”

  She stopped, sank into the chair across from him and dropped her head into her hands. “I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake, Michael, and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

  He waited patiently until she had composed herself.

  “Andrew Maguire is on the list of the prosecution’s witnesses.”

  “We already knew that. What difference does it make now?”

  She lifted her head and stared at him. “It wouldn’t make any difference to a judge. Andrew has no more nor less credibility than you do. Even though he has no convictions, he’s IRA. Everyone knows that. The SAS have been trying to arrest him for years.”

  “I still don’t understand the problem.”

  “You will be tried by a jury, Michael, not a judge. Andrew Maguire’s standing in the community is beyond question. There isn’t a Catholic family in the Falls who doesn’t believe he stands next to God.”

  Michael reached for Meghann, saw the guard frown and start for the door, and pulled back. “Damn peelers,” he swore bitterly. “They’re inhuman.”

  Meghann tried to laugh and failed miserably.

  Under the table his hand closed around hers. “There’s no need for you t’ worry yourself like this. You’ve been away from Belfast for a long time, Meghann. ’Tis highly unlikely the jury will be made up of residents from the Falls. The way I see it, Andrew has no more credibility than I do.”

  “They’ll try to fill the jury with Catholics.”

  Michael shrugged. “I’ve a few friends in West Belfast, myself.”

  Meghann stared at him. “Aren’t you concerned at all?”

  He laughed and her heart lifted. Dear God, how she loved this man.

  He brought the cigarette to his lips and blew out a ring of smoke. “I’ve been here before. What puzzles me is how you can do this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He released her hand and leaned back in his chair. His words were measured and thoughtful, without the slightest hint of censure. “How can a Catholic girl from the Falls administer British justice for her livelihood?”

  “It’s the best we’ve got,” she said simply.

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “It’s true. Not that it’s always administered properly or by impartial people,” she amended hastily, “but when it is, it works better than anything else.”

  Michael’s face was impassive. “We’ll see if British law applies to Catholics from Belfast.”

  Suddenly Meghann was embarrassed. Michael was on trial and his attitude was better than hers, his attorney. “Do you have a suit?” she asked, changing the subject.

  Michael was startled. “Yes.”

  “You’ll need it for the trial.” She straightened, assuming her professional role once again. “We’ll be meeting every day until then. I want you to do exactly what I tell you without exception.”

  “All right.”

  “The Crown will present its case and call witnesses first. I will cross-examine them. I want you to remain seated at all times and make no comments, no matter what is said.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Do not react to anything. Do not smile, frown, laugh, grimace. Keep your face as blank as possible unless I instruct you to do otherwise. This is extremely crucial, Michael. You must promise me that you’ll cooperate.”

  “I will.”

  Meghann nodded. “Answer only what is asked of you. Do not explain or elaborate unless you are told to do so. Do not speak quickly. Take as long as you need to formulate an answer, and if you’re confused, request clarification. Confusion on the part of the accused is lethal. You must be sure of your answers.”

  “Anything else?”

  Meghann shook her head. There was no need to warn Michael about the tone of his responses. His voice was beautiful, deep, perfectly pitched, ri
ch in quality, and wonderful to hear. It was his strongest weapon, that and his physical appeal. Meghann made a mental note to select as many women jurors as possible.

  She looked at her watch. “It’s time,” she said softly. One more thing. “Do you know a man named O’Shea?”

  He shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “He’s on the prosecution’s witness list. I’ll have Miles check him out. Your mother says to give you her love. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll begin preparing.”

  “Look at me, Meghann.”

  She did and quickly looked away. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “We’ve both got to concentrate. I won’t be of any use to you if we forget what’s most important.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Right now? Securing your release.”

  “And later?”

  She looked at him again and what she saw in his face terrified her. What if she couldn’t save him? “Prepare yourself, Michael,” she said. “God help us both. I have no idea how this will turn out. Prepare yourself for every possible outcome.”

  He smiled, a brief turning of his mouth. “There’s no trick to that, Meggie. I’ve lived my whole life that way.”

  Twenty-Five

  Thursday dawned bright and clear, a beautiful July day typical of the North of Ireland. Leaving her porridge untouched, Meghann looked across the table at Annie Devlin. The older woman said little and under her eyes were etched the dark circles of sleepless nights. Meghann ached with pity. How many times had Annie been through this? How many children had been tried and sentenced by the Crown?

  Annie Devlin was descended from the nationalist aristocracy of West Belfast. Her family had flown the republican flag during the dry years of the thirties, forties, and fifties. She had grown up on tales of Daniel O’Connor and Charles Parnell. Nothing had occurred in her life and her children’s that she hadn’t anticipated. But she was old now and, of all of her children, Michael was her pride and joy. She’d had different hopes for Michael.

  Meghann reached across the table and covered the work-worn hand with her own. “I’m sorry, Annie. I wish I could offer you some guarantees.”