Skye O'Malley (2 page)

But though Skye had learned the womanly arts, she had not become a biddable female. Not Skye O’Malley!

PART I

I
RELAND

CHAPTER 1

I
T WAS A PERFECT EARLY SUMMER DAY IN THE YEAR 1555
. I
NNISFANA
Island, its great green cliffs tumbling into the deep and sparkling blue sea, shone clear at the mouth of O’Malley Bay. English weather, the Irish inhabitants of the region called it, and it was nearly the only English thing they approved of. There was a slight breeze, and in the skies above the island the gulls and terns soared and swooped, their eerie
skrees
the only counterpoint to the breaking surf.

Standing tall against the horizon was O’Malley Castle, a typical tower house of dark gray stone. Rising several stories high, it commanded a view of the sea from all its windows. It had a wide moat, and beyond that moat was—of all things—a rose garden, planted by the late Lady O’Malley. After her death, now four years past, the new Lady O’Malley kept the garden up. Now in full bloom, it was a riot of yellows, pinks, reds, and whites, a perfect background for the wedding of the youngest daughter.

Inside the tower house, in the main hall, the five older daughters of the O’Malley family sat happily gossiping with their pretty stepmother while they sewed and embroidered the bride’s trousseau. It had been a long time since they had all been together.
Now, each had her own home, and they all met only on special occasions.

They were as similar now as they had been as children. Medium-tall, they all ran to partridge plump. It was the kind of comfortable figure that kept a man warm on a cold night. Each was fair-skinned with soft peach-colored cheeks, serious gray eyes, and long, straight, light-brown hair. None was beautiful, but none was ugly, either.

The eldest, Moire, was twenty-five, and had been married for twelve years. She was mother to nine living children, seven sons. Moire stood high in her father’s favor. Peigi, at twenty-three, had been married ten years and was mother to nine sons. Peigi stood even higher in her father’s favor. Bride, twenty-one, had been married eight years, and had only four children, two of whom were boys. Dubhdara tolerated Bride, and constantly exhorted her to greater productivity. “You’re more like your mother than the others,” he would say ominously.

Eibhlin, eighteen, was the only one with a religious calling. She had been such a quiet little thing that they hadn’t even suspected her piety until the boy to whom she was to be wed succumbed to an attack of measles the year Eibhlin was twelve. As O’Malley considered a possible replacement bridegroom for his fourth daughter, Eibhlin begged to be allowed to enter a convent. She genuinely desired that life. Because her uncle Seamus, now bishop of Murrisk, was present for the talk, Dubhdara O’Malley was forced to give his consent. Eibhlin entered her convent at thirteen, and had just recently taken final vows.

Sine O’Malley Butler was sixteen, wed three years, and the mother of one boy. She was eight months pregnant but she would not have missed Skye’s wedding.

The married sisters were dressed in simply cut, full-skirted silk dresses with bell sleeves and low, scooped necklines. Moire was in a deep, rich blue, Peigi in scarlet, Bride in violet, and Sine in golden yellow. The lacy frill of their chemises peeked elegantly up through the low bodices.

Eibhlin struck the only somber note. Her all-covering black linen gown was relieved only by a severe white starched rectangular bib, in which was centered an ebony, silver-banded crucifix. About her waist the nun wore a twisted silk rope, also black, which hung in two plaits to the hem of her gown. One plait, knotted into three knots, symbolized the Trinity. The other, knotted in the same manner, symbolized the estates of poverty, chastity, and obedience.
By way of vivid contrast, her sisters wore chains of wrought gold or silver about their waists, and each woman had attached to her chain a rosary, a needlecase, a mirror, or simply a set of household keys.

Because this was an informal home gathering, the married sisters wore their hair loose, parted in the center. Sine and Peigi had added pretty arched linen caps. And of course Eibhlin, whose hair had been cut when she took her vows, wore starched and pleated white wings over her white wimple.

Presiding over this gathering was Dubhdara O’Malley’s second wife. Anne was the same age as her stepdaughter, Eibhlin, and as pregnant with her fourth child as was her stepdaughter, Sine. Anne was a pretty woman, with chestnut-brown curls, merry brown eyes, and a sweet, sensible nature. Anne’s silk gown was of a deep wine shade, and fashioned identically to her stepdaughters’ gowns. But over her ruffled bodice Anne wore a double strand of creamy baroque pearls. None of the O’Malley daughters had resented their father’s marriage to Anne and everyone liked her enormously. One could not help liking Anne.

For nine years after Skye’s birth Dubhdara O’Malley had obeyed his priest brother’s edict, and stayed out of his wife’s bed. He really did not wish to kill Peigi. Free of yearly pregnancies, Peigi regained her strength and even began to bloom. Then, one night, Dubhdara O’Malley had arrived home from a long voyage. It was late. He had no current mistress, and there wasn’t a servant girl in sight. He had gotten drunk and sought his wife’s bed. Nine months later, Peigi O’Malley died giving birth to the long-awaited son, born September 29th and baptized Michael. The little boy was now almost six.

Within an almost indecently short time O’Malley had taken his second wife, a girl of thirteen. Nine months from their wedding day Anne had birthed Brian; a year later, Shane; and in another year, Shamus. Unlike her meek predecessor, Anne O’Malley possessed good health and high spirits. This child she carried was to be the last, she told her husband firmly. It would also, she assured him, be a boy. Five sons should give him the immortality he craved.

O’Malley had laughed and slapped her playfully on the backside. His daughters took this to mean that he was either in his dotage or growing mellow with age. Had their own mother ever made such a statement she would have been beaten black and blue. But then, Anne O’Malley was the mother of sons.

Moire looked up from her embroidery to gaze with pleasure
about the hall. It had never looked so nice in their mother’s time for she, poor soul, had spent much of her life in her own rooms.

The stone floors were always well swept now, the rushes changed weekly. The oak trestles were polished to a mellow golden hue, reflecting the great silver candlesticks with their pure beeswax tapers. The big brass andirons were filled with enormous oak logs, ready to be lit when the evening arrived. Behind the high board, prominently displayed, hung a large new tapestry depicting Saint Brendan the Monk on a sky-blue background, guiding his ship across the western seas. Anne had designed it, and had been working on it almost every evening of her married life. It had been a labor of love, for the second Lady O’Malley adored not only her bluff, big husband, but their sons and their home as well.

Moire’s eyes lit upon several big colorful porcelain bowls filled with roses. Their pungent, spicy scent gave the room a wonderful exotic smell. Moire wrinkled her nose with pleasure and said to Anne, “The bowls are new?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your father brought them back from his last voyage. He is so good to me, Moire.”

“And why not?” demanded Moire. “You are good to him, Anne.”

“Where is Skye?” interrupted Peigi.

“Out riding with young Dom. I am surprised at your father in pursuing this betrothal. They do not suit at all.”

“They were promised in the cradle,” explained Moire. “It wasn’t easy for Da to find husbands for us all, for we’ve none of us large dowries. Skye’s marrying the heir to the Ballyhennessey O’Flahertys is the best match of us all.”

Anne shook her head. “I fear this match. Your sister is a very independent girl.”

“And it’s all Da’s fault for he has spoiled her terribly,” said Peigi. “She should have been married off two years ago at thirteen, like the rest of us. But no, Skye did not want it. He lets
her
have her way all the time!”

“That’s not so, Peigi,” Eibhlin chided her sister. “Anne is correct when she says that Skye and Dom do not suit. Skye is not like us in temperament. We favor our mother while she favors Da. Dom is simply neither strong enough nor sensitive enough to be Skye’s husband.”

“Hoity-toity, sister,” said Peigi sourly. “It amazes me how much the wee nun knows about human nature.”

“Indeed and I do,” replied Eibhlin calmly, “for whom do you
think the poor women of my district pour out their unhappiness to, Peigi? Certainly not the priest! He tells them it is their Christian duty to be abused by their menfolk! And then he adds to their guilt by giving them a penance.”

The sisters look shocked, and Anne broke the tension by laughing, “You’re more a rebel than a holy woman, stepdaughter.”

Eibhlin sighed. “You speak the truth, Anne, and it troubles me greatly. But though I try I cannot seem to change.”

Anne O’Malley leaned over and fondly patted her stepdaughter on the hand. “Being a woman is never, ever easy,” she said wisely, “no matter what role we choose to play in life.”

The two young women smiled fondly at each other with complete understanding. Then everyone looked startled as they heard shouting in the entry hall below them. As the noise came toward them up the steps the O’Malley sisters glanced knowingly at each other. They recognized the voices of Dom O’Flaherty and their sister, Skye.

As the two burst into the main hall, Anne O’Malley was again struck by the beauty of the two young people. She had never seen two more physically perfect people, and perhaps this was why her husband insisted on the match. Anne shivered with apprehension.

Dom O’Flaherty threw his riding gloves on a table. At eighteen he was of medium height, slender, with beautifully shaped arms, hands, and legs. Having inherited his French grandmother’s coloring, he had glorious, close-cropped, curly golden hair, and sky-blue eyes. He affected a tailored short beard that hugged the perfectly sculpted sides of his face and ended in a softly rounded point. Because he was angry, however, his fair skin was now an unattractive, mottled red. His handsome face with its long, straight nose and narrow lips was contorted with rage.

“It’s indecent!” he shouted at Skye. “It’s indecent and immodest for a maiden to ride astride a beast! My God, Skye! That horse of yours! When we’re married I will see that you’re more suitably mounted upon a palfrey. What ever possessed your father to let you ride that big, black brute, I’ll never know!”

“You lost, Dom,” came the infuriatingly cool reply. “You lost the race to me, and as you always did when we were children, you try to retaliate by clouding the issue. Well, let me tell you what you can do with your bloody palfrey!”

“Skye!” Anne O’Malley’s voice was sharp with warning.

The girl looked to her stepmother, then laughed. “Oh, all right, Annie,” she acquiesced prettily, “I will try to behave myself.
But
,
Dom O’Flaherty … hear me well. Finn is my horse. I have raised him from a colt, and I love him. If we’re to be happily married, you must accept that, for I have no intention of exchanging him for a rocking horse just to soothe your male pride.”

And while her bridegroom fumed, Skye signaled to a servant to bring some wine. As if in afterthought, she ordered some for Dom as well. Flinging himself into a chair, he glowered at her, but all the while his eyes roamed her body and he thought how beautiful she was in her dark-green silk riding habit. The skirt was divided, and the neckline open, plunging into the valley of her young breasts. Tiny beads of moisture had gathered on her chest and the sight excited him. He realized that he longed to possess this lovely young woman.

At fifteen Skye O’Malley was well on the way to fulfilling the promise of unequaled beauty that she had shown at birth. She stood every bit as tall as her betrothed. Like him, she was beautifully proportioned, with a slim waist that moved into softly rounded hips. Her breasts were small but full. She had a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were still the color of the seas off the Kerry coast, sometimes pure blue, sometimes dark, sometimes azure with a faint hint of green. They were fringed in thick ebony lashes that brushed tender pink cheeks. Her nose was slim, turning up just slightly at the tip. And if you looked carefully you could see a few soft, golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. The red mouth was surprisingly seductive with a full lower lip, and when she laughed she revealed small, perfect white teeth. Her skin was the color of cream and seemed even fairer by the contrasting mass of blue-black hair that tumbled about her shoulders.

She excited Dom very much, although he, it seemed, did not interest her. She far preferred galloping that great black stallion of hers at breakneck speed about the countryside, or sailing off with her father on some piratical adventure. The realization was quite a shock to his pride.

Dom O’Flaherty was not used to indifference from the fair sex. Women ordinarily made fools of themselves over him, and he was very proud of his sexual prowess.

Dom tried to console himself with the thought that once he bedded her she would soon be tamed. Hot-tempered virgins usually turned out to be passionate lovers. He licked his thin lips in anticipation, and quaffed his goblet of wine. He was not aware that his betrothed was eying him with disgust. Dom O’Flaherty would run to fat in his middle years, Skye decided.

Again from the entry below came the noises of arrival. Anne O’Malley rose to her feet with a smile. “Your father is back,” she said, “and it sounds like he brings guests.”

Two large wolfhounds, several setters, and a large terrier all bounded into the hall. One of the wolfhounds trotted up to Anne and dropped two small velvet bags at her feet. Bending, Lady O’Malley picked up the bags and, loosening the strings, poured the contents of one bag into her cupped hand. She stared at the sapphire-and-diamond necklace that nestled in her palm. “Holy Mary!” she gasped.