Bertrice Small: Skye O'Malley

Dubhdara O’Malley came to his young wife’s bedside. They had
bathed her and put her between clean, lavender-scented sheets. She
had been given a nourishing drink of beef broth mixed with red wine
and herbs, which would stop the bleeding and help her sleep. She
was exhausted.

The room emptied. O’Malley bent and kissed his wife’s cheek.
He looked somewhat older, for he had suffered untold agonies at
the possibility of losing this loving woman.

“No more, Annie! I am happy to settle for five sons, and the
bonniest wife in Ireland! I don’t want to lose you, love.”

She smiled weakly and patted his hand. Then suddenly she re-
membered her promise. “Skye…” she began weakly.

For a moment he looked puzzled, then his brow cleared. “Skye’
Ah, yes! The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow. You’d not have it called off, eh love? Well, don’t worry, Annie. Skye will be wed
tomorrow, never fear. You just rest and get strong, and if you’re
awake before tomorrow evening I’ll send the bride and groom in to
visit you.”

She tried to speak, tried to tell him that he must call it off, that
the wedding of Skye and Dom would be a terrible mistake. But the
herbs and exhaustion had taken effect. Anne struggled to speak, but
could not. Her eyes slowly closed and she couldn’t open them again.
Anne O’Malley had fallen into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Dubhdara O’Malley stood looking down at his sleeping daugh-
ter. It shocked even him to realize how beautiful Skye really
was, and he wished he had the name and the fortune to assure
her a nobler husband than young O’Flaherty.

He bore no love for the English, but he knew mat their royal
court was at this moment the center of the earth, and he thought how
Skye would shine there.

Still, he hadn’t done badly by her. Her husband would be the
next chief of the Ballyhennessey O’Flahertys, and Skye would be
mother to the chief after Dom. He had her safely settled. He’d miss
her, though. Well, he chuckled to himself, why not admit he had
a special place in his heart for the lass? She was pure O’Malley.
Himself in female form, and like none of his other children.

For a few minutes more he watched her in silent wonder, and
men he gently shook her by the shoulder. “Wake up, Skye! Wake
up, lassie.”

She resisted, having no desire to be yanked from the dream in
which she and Niall were kissing. He persisted, however, and finally
she opened her eyes a bit. “Da? What’s the matter?”

“Annie’s been delivered of a fine, healthy son, poppet. But she’s
fair worn with the effort. Still, she doesn’t want your marriage
postponed. The wedding feast will go on as scheduled, but you and
Dom are to be married in an hour in the family chapel. Get up, Skye
lass! This is your wedding day!”

She was instantly awake. “No, Da! No! Anne promise!-“

“It’s all right, love,” he interrupted. “It’s all right with Anne.

She’s sorry to miss the festivities, but she knows that, with a castle
full of guests, we couldn’t postpone it.”

Skye sat up, her long dark hair tumbling about her white shoul-
ders. Her eyes were enormous and deep blue in her heart-shaped
face. He shifted his eyes uncomfortably from the perfection of her
small breasts, visible through the thin lawn of her shift. “Da! Listen
to me, please! I do not want to marry Dom O’Flaherty! Oh, why
won’t you listen to me?!”

Dubhdara O’Malley sat down on the edge of his favorite child’s
bed. “Now, poppet, we’ve been over this before. Of course you’re
going to marry Dom. He’s a fine young man, and it’s a good match
for you. These bridal nerves are natural, but you must not give way.”

Why didn’t he understand? “No, please, Da! No! I hate Dom! I
cannot… I will not marry him!” There was an hysterical edge to
her voice.

“Skye!” His voice had become stern. “Enough, now! I have post-
poned this wedding for two years in hopes you would outgrow your
willfulness, but no more, poppet! You’ve no reason to cry off, no
religious calling, only silly maiden fears that will have vanished by
this time tomorrow.” He stood up. “Make yourself beautiful for
Dom, poppet.” And he left her.

Skye began to weep, a combination of frustration, anger, and
fear. Great, gulping sobs of anguish poured hot and salty from her
eyes until they were almost swollen shut. Molly, finding her young
mistress in this shocking state, turned about and sought the lady
Eibhlin. The young nun came instantly and, taking her younger sister
into her loving arms, tried to soothe her. When the sobs had finally
abated, Eibhlin laid her sister back on her pillows and mixed some
herbs in a goblet of wine that she made Skye drink. The medication
would soothe her. Eibhlin had seen cases of bridal nerves before.

Next the nun took soft pads of linen soaked in rose water, and
lay them on Skye’s closed eyes.

“It will take the swelling down,” she told Molly. “We’ll let her
rest for half an hour, then dress her for the wedding.”

Very soon thereafter, Skye O’Malley stood beside Dom O’Flaherty
in the castle’s candlelit chapel and was wed. All the guests agreed
that there had never been a more beautiful bride. Her gown was of
creamy white satin with a deep, square neck edged in a wide ruffle
of silver lace. The low neckline gave the groom a fine view of her
breasts, and Dom O’Flaherty licked his lips in anticipation at the
sight of small, pink nipples.

As the elderly priest intoned the ancient Latin words of the cer-
emony over them, the bridegroom thought lasciviously of how he
would pillow his head tonight on those soft breasts. When she raised her hand to receive the marriage ring, Dom noted the richness of
her gown for the first time. The sleeves were slashed, the inserts
filled with silver lace. This lace also edged the wrists. Her beautiful
Mack hair was unbound, in recognition of her innocence, and topped
by a simple wreath of sweetly scented white flowers.

She was whiter than her gown, and had Dom bothered to look
closer, he would have seen the helpless, trapped look in her eyes.
The drug given her by her sister forced her to comply with the farce.
Her responses were so low that they could barely be heard, and she
moved like a puppet. Her family assumed it was bridal nerves.

They were pronounced man and wife. They turned to face their
families and, at that moment, the chapel doors were flung open,
revealing Niall Burke, his face anguished, his eyes stark with a pain
that only she could understand. Skye simply wanted to die.

“Kiss the bride! Kiss the bride!” came the ribald shouts.

Dom O’Flaherty turned Skye so that she faced him. “Now,” he
said triumphantly, “you belong to me!” His mouth found hers. He
forced his tongue between her soft lips and into her mouth. Around
them came the crude cries of encouragement. The tongue was soft,
and demanding. Seeking to escape this horror, Skye fainted.

“Ho!” shouted Dubhdara O’Malley, well pleased. “Here’s fine
proof of my lass’s innocence! Her first kiss and she swoons! Loosen
her laces, lad. You’re no stranger to women’s clothes, or so I’m
told.”

While the laughter that greeted O’Malley’s sally echoed around
the chapel, Dom O’Flaherty picked up his bride and carried her from
the room. Helplessly Niall Burke watched as the unconscious Skye
was borne back to her room. He wanted to hit the smug young man
who cradled Skye in his arms with such obvious pride of ownership.

For the first time in his life, the heir to one of the most powerful
families in Ireland had been thwarted. For the last three days Niall
had tried unsuccessfully to see the O’Malley, but Dubhdara had been
unavailable to his guests because of his young wife’s lying in. Under
the circumstances, Niall hadn’t expected them to marry Skye off so
quickly. He had thought he had time to speak with the O’Malley.
Though the situation would have been embarrassing, there would
have been no real disgrace in O’Malley exchanging the heir to Ballyhennessey for the heir to the MacWilliam of Mayo.