Ruth Langan - Briana

He caught her arm and pulled her close until his breath seared her skin. His voice trembled with emotion. “Oh, I see you. And do you know what I see? A foolish, headstrong lass who hasn’t one shred of sense in that empty little brain. Don’t you understand that those soldiers could have taken you with them for their sport?”

If he’d expected to shock or frighten her, he was mistaken.

“I wish they had tried.” She tossed her head. “They’d have found my knife planted in their black English hearts.”

It was, for Gavin O’Neil, the final straw. He looked, for a full minute, as though he might strike her. Instead he flung her from him and looked toward his wife. “You were charged with teaching your daughter the ways of a woman.”

Moira stood a little straighter, aware that half the village was witnessing this scene, and the other half would hear every word of it repeated before nightfall. “And so I shall. But you must be patient, Gavin.”

“Patient? Patient?” He slammed a fist down on the mantel, sending candles toppling.

Nervous servants hastened to upright them before they began to smolder.

“I’ve been patient long enough.” He pinned his wife with a look that had long struck fear into seasoned warriors. Moira knew that he had now crossed the line from anger to full-blown rage. There would be no stopping him until the storm had run its course. “Now I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Moira braced herself for what was to come. Beside her, her daughter watched with wary eyes.

“This very day Briana will go to the Abbey of St. Claire.”

“A cloister? Nay, Gavin. You can’t mean this.”

“You know me better than that, woman. I do mean it.”

Her voice quavered. “I beg you, Gavin, don’t do this thing.”

“It is the only way to assure she will live to womanhood.”

Briana’s eyes had gone wide with shock and fear. “You wouldn’t send me away. I couldn’t live without you and Mother. Without Rory and Conor and Innis. I’d rather die, Father, than leave Ballinarin.”

“You should have thought about that before you took up the ways of a warrior. Now you must pay for your foolishness. In the convent, you’ll learn a woman’s ways.”

“A woman?” Her voice rang with scorn. “What care I about such things?”

“You’ll learn to care. A woman is what you are. What you cannot deny. You’ll learn how to pray and weave. How to be humble and docile and respectful. In the silence of the cloister you’ll learn how to hold that tongue of yours. In the cloister you’ll have time to contemplate your foolish, impulsive behavior.”

“I have no desire to learn a woman’s ways.”

“I care not what you desire. I care only what is good for you. If, after a year, I receive a good report from the mother superior, I’ll consider allowing you to return to Ballinarin.”

“A year. Gavin, consider what you’re saying.” Moira stepped closer to her daughter, while fear began growing in the pit of her stomach. She could see the darkness in his eyes; could hear it in his voice. This time it was more than anger; it was desperation. This time he meant it. He would do whatever it took to keep his beloved Briana safe. Even if it meant breaking her spirit. And her heart. All their hearts. “They’ll dress her in coarse robes, and force her to sleep on the floor. And her hair, Gavin. They’ll cut it all off.”

He couldn’t bear to look at the mass of red tangles that spilled around a deceptively angelic face. It had always secretly pleased him that his only daughter had inherited his mother’s lush, coppery hair.

Because they lacked conviction, his words were hurled like daggers. “All the better. ‘Twill be good for her humility.”

Briana’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back furiously. She’d rather die than let the village lads see her cry.

Gavin saw the way his daughter was struggling for control and turned away abruptly. He had crossed a line. There would be no turning back now. By evening, all in the surrounding villages would know that Gavin O’Neil had banished his only daughter to the Abbey of St. Claire, to turn her into a lady.

Because I love her, he told himself. Because I would do anything to keep her safe. Even turn her out of her beloved home, and deny her mother and me the pleasure of her company.

“I’ll have a messenger ride ahead to the cloister. Pack her bags and bid your daughter Godspeed, Moira. Briana leaves on the morrow.”

The Abbey of St. Claire 1656

“Briana.” The voice of tall, stern Sister Immaculata came from just outside the doorway. “You must wake, child.”

“Not yet.” The figure huddled deeper into the nest of coarse blankets, wanting to return to her dream. It had been such a sweet dream. She’d been riding her favorite steed across the lush green hills of Ballinarin, in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick. Her best friend, Innis, and her brothers, Rory and Conor, had been with her, laughing and teasing. She’d been free. Gloriously free of the odious rules that now governed her life. Prayers before dawn, followed by a meal of tasteless gruel, and then work in the fields until noon, when the Angelus was prayed and they were allowed a meal of meat and cheese before retiring to their cells to pray and rest. The afternoon was the same. Endless work, followed by bread and soup, and then evening vespers. Even sleep was regulated, broken at midnight and again at three o’clock in the morning for common prayer in the chapel.

Out of consideration for their age, the older nuns were given duties inside the convent, scrubbing floors, washing linens, cleaning the chapel. The younger ones, students and postulants alike, worked the fields and tended the herds.

“Briana, you must get up now.” The voice was beside her. A hand touched her shoulder. That, in itself, had her coming fully awake, for there was no touching allowed in the convent. There were no hugs. No squeezing of hands. Even the brush of one shoulder by another caused both parties to stiffen and turn away.

She opened her eyes. The blaze from the candle held in the nun’s hand made her squint. “I’ve only just fallen asleep, Sister. It can’t be time to pray yet.”

“I haven’t wakened you for prayer, child. Mother Superior awaits you in the refectory.”

“The refectory? She’s eating?”

“Nay. She is seeing to a meal for the lads who have come to escort you home.”

Home. Briana blinked, unable to say the word aloud. Her banishment of one year had grown to two, and then to three, as she had railed against the injustice of the rules, managing to break every one of them. For each rule she broke, the prospect of ever seeing Ballinarin again had become so remote, she had feared it would never happen. And now, without notice, she was being given a reprieve. Still, though there was the slightest flicker of hope, she held back, refusing to allow it to burst into flame for fear it would be snuffed, as it had so often in the past. “But why now?”

“I don’t know, child. Mother Superior will explain it to you. Now hurry and dress.” Satisfied that her young charge was not going to fall back asleep, the old nun took her leave as silently as she had come.

Briana slipped off the coarse nightshift and crossed to a basin of cold water, washing quickly. Then she dressed in a shapeless brown garment and scuffed boots, before folding up her pallet and setting it in a corner of the room. A quick glance around assured her that the cell was as clean and as bare as when she had arrived, three years earlier.

Despite the time she had spent here, there was nothing of Briana in this simple cell. No mementoes of home and family. No small comforts. The sleeping pallet consisted of a rough blanket on the floor. On a plain table rested a basin and pitcher, which bore no adornments. There was no mirror. For that, Briana was grateful. She had no desire to see how she must look now, with her hair shorn, her hands, rough and callused, the nails torn and ragged from her hours spent tending the crops and flocks in the fields. Even her body had changed. Gone were the soft, round curves of younger womanhood. Over the years she had grown taller and reed slender, with the merest slope of hips, and breasts so small and firm, they were easily concealed beneath the robes of a peasant.