Bertrice Small - Skye O'Malley

Washed and dressed, her long black hair braided and affixed atop her head, she gathered up a dark plaid cloak and left the room. She
found a man-at-arms waiting, and directed him to fetch the small
trunk in her room and see it safely stowed in the waiting boat.

Regally, she descended the stairs. Below, in the castle’s main
hall, her father, her sister Eibhlin, and Dom awaited her. Dom looked
terrible. His eyes were badly bloodshot and puffy, and his face was
marked with several scratches and bruises. She steeled herself for
the confrontation. “Good morning, Dom.” He eyed her angrily,
nodded, but said nothing. She shrugged, then turned to her father.
”I am ready to go, Da, but before I do I want to know the truth.
Niall would not have left me unless forced.”

Dom O’Flaherty’s light-blue eyes widened, then narrowed. He
turned to his father-in-law. “What the hell treachery is this,
O’Malley? It’s bad enough that Burke demanded the droit du seig neur of my bride before the entire district. Now it appears she was
in collusion with him!” He whirled on Skye. “You little bitch! How
long has it been going on? How long have you been whoring with
Burke? I ought to beat you black and blue!”

Skye eyed her husband coldly. Her voice was calm and level.
”I met Niall but a few days ago, Dom. Yes, we are in love. I do
not understand how it happened, but it did. I do not particularly like
you, Dom, but I would not have hurt or embarrassed you deliber-
ately. Niall Burke wants to marry me. Give me an annulment. You
don’t love me. Niall will arrange for you to have a new and noble
bride, and a fat financial settlement to soothe your wounded pride.”

Dom looked as if she had lost her mind. “Have you given me a
half-wit to wife, O’Malley?” He turned on Skye. “Listen, you little
fool! The MacWilliam isn’t about to let his heir marry with the likes
of you. Niall Burke is a rake. He wanted only to fuck with you,
which I’ve no doubt he did quite well if his reputation is warranted.
It’s over! Now you’ll go with Eibhlin to Innishturk until I’m sure
Burke’s seed did not take root. When you come home to me, Skye,
you’ll be a proper wife-like me or no-and you’ll go no more
awhoring. Get out of my sight now, woman!”

“Da!”

“Obey your husband, Skye. He is your master now.”

“Never!”

Dom O’Flaherty leaped the distance between them and, grasping
Skye by the arm, slapped her brutally several times. Shocked, for
her father had never hit her, she could only try and protect herself
from his blows. “Whore! I warned you what would happen if you
disobeyed me!” He shook her hard. Furious and fearful both, Skye
pulled away angrily.

“Whoreson!” she hissed. “Hit me again and I’ll stick a knife into
your black heart!”

“Enough!” roared O’Malley, stepping between the two. “Enough,
Dom!” His voice was sharp. “Eibhlin, take your sister to the boat,
and go”

Skye’s eyes were almost black in anger. “I’ll not forgive you for.
this, Da,” she said quietly. Shooting him a look of pure hatred, she
left the hall with her sister.

Outside, the day was chill and gray. The wind whipped the
women’s cloaks about them as they hurried across the drawbridge
and through the rose garden. For a moment Skye stopped. Her eyes
softened and swam with tears. Plucking a red rose, she inhaled its
fragrance, sighed, and continued on her way, carefully picking her
way down the path that led from the cliff top to the damp beach
below. A sailboat and two of her father’s men waited on the beach.
She could see her trunk already in the boat. One of the men helped
Eibhlin into the little craft. Skye brushed aid aside, clambering up
into the craft and seating herself in the stern. She took a firm grip
on the tiller. While one sailor pushed the boat from the damp sand,
the other hoisted the sail.

The sailor Connor grinned, nodded, and sat back when Skye took
the tiller. They’d be at Innishturk Island in a jig time, for no one
could sail a boat like Mistress Skye. The other sailor, newer to
O’Malley’s service, sat silently.

Skye tacked the boat smartly across the castle’s sheltered cove
and nosed it into the open sea. The day was turning fair, and there
was a good breeze. The small boat skimmed across the deep blue
waves. Innishturk, but a few nautical miles away, was easily visible.
Skye carefully set her course to bring the craft in on the piece of
coast closest to Eibhlin’s convent.

Eibhlin wanted desperately to talk to her, but Skye suddenly
looked older, and very forbidding. The young nun was suddenly
sad. What could she possibly say to cheer her sister? What did you
say to a woman forcibly married to one man when she deeply loved
another? Once again, Eibhlin felt the frustration of being a woman
in a man’s world. Again she asked herself why it was so.

Then Eibhlin saw a terrible bruise beginning to form on Skye’s
left cheekbone. Silently the nun dipped her handkerchief in the icy
cold sea and, squeezing it out, wordlessly handed it to her sister.
A brief smile was her thanks, as Skye took the wet cloth and held
it to her injured face.

Innishturk came closer, then closer, and soon the little boat was
scudding up onto the beach. Eibhlin was lifted out. In her element now, she commanded, “Bring Mistress Skye’s trunk, Connor. Padraic, you stay with the boat.”

“Yes, Sister.” “Aye, Sister.”

Skye swung herself over the side of the boat and dropped lightly
to the sand. She knew the way quite well, for she had often come
with her father to see Eibhlin. Silently she trudged up the path from
the beach. At the cliff top she undid a small wicket gate, and held
it open for her sister and the panting Connor. The gate swung shut,
and they were on the convent grounds.

Ahead of them stood St. Bride’s of the Cliffs, built over one
hundred years before. The convent was built around a quadrangle,
the four towers of its corners rising stark against the sky. The dark
gray stones of the main building were weathered by the wind and
the sea. There were several outbuildings for the convent livestock,
a bakehouse and a washhouse. At the convent portal-a double
oaken door bounded in brass-they stopped.

“Connor will have to wait here,” said Eibhlin. “I’ll send someone
to bring your trunk.”

“I’ll wait with him,” said Skye quietly. “If I am to be cloistered
for a month I’d just as soon postpone my captivity.”

Eibhlin did not argue. She pulled on the bell. When it was an-
swered by the portress, she entered hurriedly.

Alone with Skye, Connor observed, “Strange place for a hon-
eymoon if you ask me.”

“I didn’t!” snapped Skye, “but it’s as good a place as any when
you’re wed to the wrong man. Repeat that, you old gossip, and I’m
sure to be beaten for it.”

“The O’Malley never laid a hand on you in your life, lass!”

“No, he didn’t, but the little bastard he’s married me to did. The
bruise on my cheek is a mark of his affection.”

Connor saw nothing wrong with a man occasionally giving his
woman a clout to keep her in line, but he was truly shocked mat a
bridegroom would beat his bride of one day. Mistress Skye was not
just any lass. She was special. Besides, he was related to her maid,
Molly, who’d barely survived her night with O’Flaherty. Better to
warn the young mistress.

“I’d best say this straight out, lass, so’s you’ll be on your guard.
O’Flaherty took Molly to his bed last night. Fair killed her too.
Made her do all kinds of things no decent man would ask of a
woman. Then he beat her half to death and kicked her out. When
you’ve got to go back to him, be careful.”