The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (10 page)

The voyage back from Spain was part bitter—for I knew ’twould be my last—but sweet as well, for the love that moved between my father and me was as strong as a river tide. On the day Ireland first came within our sight, we stood gazin’ at the shore side by side. He said, “You know, Grace, I’ve been meanin’ to say that if Donal O’Flaherty ever lays a hand on you, I’ll kill him. But what with your performance in Cadiz, it seems the lad’s got a fair share more to fear from you than the likes of me. I think,” he continued somewhat wistfully, “that had you been born a boy, you would’ve made a great noise in the world. A very great noise indeed.” He pulled me to him, wrappin’ us both in his great cloak, as he had since I was a little girl, and I cried then, for the loss of my freedom, and bondage to the narrow life I knew was to be mine. There was not a thing he could do to change that, for I
had
to marry. I
had
to bear children. There was simply no place for a woman at sea. So he just held me and we watched as the coast of Ireland and my future came nearer to embrace me.

’Twas inevitable . . . and a very sad day indeed.

So it was that I married Donal O’Flaherty. I had turned sixteen, and despite my attempts to forestall the inevitable, I’d become a woman in every way, and therefore bowed to my fate. The losses were many, first and foremost my freedoms—to travel, to assume the guise of a boy and live a boy’s life at sea. Worst of all I ached for my father’s company, his stories, his easy wisdom, the feel of his strong arms around me, the sight of his broad, handsome face. But it was that which he had taught me growin’ up that saved me from total despair. Self-pity and complainin’ had always been forbidden around Owen, and he would’ve been ashamed of me had I given in to brooding. The old habits of staunch-ness and resolve were more ingrained than I knew. So in the end I made the best of my new life and counted my blessings, which were substantial.

First of all the marriage was a welcome joining of the O’Malleys with the O’Flahertys, strengthening the friendship that had long existed.

Owen and Gilleduff, closer than some brothers since childhood, were now in-laws and looked forward to their inevitable shared grandchildren. And the O’Flaherty territories were nothin’ short of gorgeous.

South of the O’Malley lands were, of course, the coastline and several islands. And inland, besides the rivers and loughs, forests, bogs, and rolling green hills, were the Twelve Bens, western Ireland’s most magnificent mountain peaks. The O’Flahertys had built many fine strongholds, and upon his marriage Donal was given two, Bunowen and Ballinahinch. So overnight Grace O’Malley gained herself a young husband and became the mistress of two castles.

We first took up residence in Bunowen, near Slyne Head, a great keep hidden from the shore by a narrow tidal inlet that merged with the Bunowen River. The only access to the place was by a small boat across the inlet, so it felt altogether safe and secure. ’Twas a new castle—only a hundred and fifty years old—so it hadn’t the mold of a thousand years clingin’ to its rock walls, which made housekeeping less of a chore.

There was a bawn to the north of it in which I planted a medicine garden and kept the fowl. A pretty hill called Doon was to the west of it, with the ruins of an old fort at the top. A parish church stood at Doon’s foot, boasting an ancient well in memory of the “Seven Daughters”—though
whose
daughters they were had been long forgot. So together with the cottages of the Bunowen O’Flahertys that nestled round the keep, there was the feel of a small village of which Donal and I were the heart.

’Twas in some ways strange and in others altogether familiar.

I prettied up the top floor of the tower where Donal and I lived, with cushions I’d stitched—badly, for I wasn’t much with the needle—but they were lovely despite me, made as they were from gaudy silks and brocades from the East. I asked Da for a gift of two elephant teeth, which I arched over the connubial bed. I should say a word about the marriage bed. In those early days it was well used, for despite Donal’s obvious faults, which were to manifest themselves quite stubbornly in our years together, he was a fine bedmate. What he lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm. He was a tireless young buck and sincerely craved my body, appreciatin’ especially the abundant parts of me—my bosom and my arse. He frequently paid compliment to my face, which he found pretty, though all such comments were reserved for the moments when we were most intimately engaged. The other times I might as well have had the look of a monkey, for all the attention I got. But in those days I thought such behavior all a woman could expect from a husband, and in that way I was content. I myself loved makin’ love. ’Twas the most I could feel the divers senses of my body. Out at sea, the work in my muscles, the stretch of my joints as I climbed the rigging, the thrill in my chest of the great ride across the waves, the explosions of our cannon in a firefight—all such sensations had been lost to me. But movin’ with Donal in our bed I learned other uses for my muscles, discovered the great
internal
rush, and explosions of another kind altogether. Indeed it made the early days of our marriage bearable, and grew a fondness between us that was sufficient, though ’twas never quite love.

I could not, for the life of me, get used to the household chores, those which my mother had tried relentlessly to instill in me, and was constantly derided by Donal’s nosy sister, Finula, who was quite a bit older than her brother and had been like a mother to Donal after his mam died.

She was all sharp edges and points—features, body, disposition, and tone. Hard to get along with, and of course, nothin’ was good enough for Donal. She was married to David Burke—chieftain of our neighbors, the Mayo Burkes—whose Gaelic title—to confuse things—was

“The MacWilliam.” Finula thought herself very grand indeed.

Of course the greatest blessing was the children. In truth I believed I’d loathe motherhood, for what vestiges of freedom I still possessed would be extinguished. ’Twas a good thing my first was a girl—Margaret, after my mother—for she was as sweet as a flower, fair haired and gentle, and so easy to love. I’d thought that as she grew I’d give her some of the freedoms of a boy that I had had, but she proved as soft as an Irish summer, the most feminine of girls with no desires outside her sex.

Margaret’s brother Owen was a sight too gentle for a boy, so said Donal, who’d been expectin’ a small version of his warlike self. To me Owen was a lovely child who had a natural way with animals of the forest as well as the herd. This was his saving grace in the eyes of his father, for at least if Owen was not a warrior he could have a useful life in husbandry.

My third child, Murrough, was everything Donal could’ve wished for—a strident little brat from the moment he came squallin’ into the world. He was barely out of nappies before his father made him his first wooden sword, and he terrorized his brother and sister and even tried it on me, though it was a short-lived attempt. One day he ’d come pokin’ at my bottom, quite vicious, with his wee sword. I wheeled round sudden like, picked him up by his shoulders, held him at eye level, and shrieked abuse at him. Well, I must’ve appeared a right Medusa, for the poor child shat himself where he hung. But it was the last time he meddled with his mother, I can tell you that.

Of course my fourth child was Donal himself. Jesus, he was a wild thing. Even now, when I think of him I cringe. We hadn’t been long married when he earned the name that was to stay with him the rest of his life—Donal an Chogaidh, meanin’ “Donal of the Battles.” Very apt, that name, for every day there was a new fight to be fought. If it didn’t come his way, he ’d go out and find one. Failin’ that, he ’d invent one. It didn’t matter the size of the altercation. He ’d be just as happy with a dogfight as a skirmish at the border, so long as somebody else ’s blood was spilled and it got his own to boilin’. Excitement to Donal was every bit as important as the air he breathed.

Of course the drunkenness didn’t help things much. All men like to drink, but in Donal’s case it poisoned his soul. The meanest temper and the basest instincts welled up in the man and spilled out of him when he was deep in his cups, and I could see he lacked the self-respect that my father always told me was so necessary for a peaceful life.

One summer when we were booleyin’, our turn came to host a gathering of the clan. ’Twas a great excitement for the children, who loved to see their cousins from all over the O’Flaherty territories, and endless opportunities for mischief. We ’d set up our booley that year near a magnificent forest that teemed with red and fallow deer, and nothin’ was more anticipated than the hunts in the wood.

As hostess of the gathering, sure I had my responsibilities, but I was not about to miss the hunt, not for the world. I’d done a bit of plannin’

beforehand and bribed a number of the O’Flaherty women who I knew to be the best cooks and bakers and cheesemakers, to tend the fires and prepare the feast while I was off with the men. So I rode away that morning through the well-worn paths of the wood surrounded by members of my new family, altogether happy to be alive. But what I saw up ahead of me quickly dampened my spirits.

My son, Murrough, eight years old, was up ridin’ there amongst his cousins, and like a perfect monster was knockin’ ’em, one after the other, off the trail and into the thicket. One poor little O’Flaherty landed in a briar patch. I rode abreast of my son, and before he knew what had happened, I’d reached out and plucked him completely off his horse and onto mine. I pulled him down to the ground and grabbed him by the shoulders, shakin’ him hard.

“What in Jesus’ name do you think you’re doin’!” I cried. “Those are your cousins you knocked into the bushes, your kin!”

“They were ahead of me,” he replied, as if I were stupid.

Then Donal arrived on horseback to see what the commotion was. I told him of our son’s appalling behavior.

“And so?” said Donal in much the same tone that Murrough had answered with. “That is what children do, Grace. ’Twas how we played when we were young.”

“No,” I said. “We were not mean-spirited like this child is. From what I’ve seen, our son enjoys givin’ pain to others.”

“Well, he ’ll be an ideal warrior when he grows up then,” replied Donal, settin’ the boy back up on his horse and slappin’ its rump so that it took off with Murrough, glad to be free of his mother’s clutches.

“You’re teachin’ our son some very dangerous lessons, Grace,” said Donal with an evil eye on me. “His older brother is already hopelessly weak.”

“Owen is not weak!” I cried. “He ’s simply good and kind.”

“Good and kind will get Owen killed, you mark my words. Now I’ll not waste another minute arguin’ with you, you silly woman.” My mouth fell open when he said that, and I swear I would’ve snatched him bald right there had not a group of O’Flahertys come galloping up behind us. I didn’t dare humiliate Donal in front of his kin, and anyhow they hollered at us, “What are you doin’ off your horses?

There ’s a pair of full-racked bucks up ahead, just beggin’ to be taken down!”

Donal glared at me as if I’d made a special effort to ruin his day, leapt back on his horse, and disappeared into the wood. I’d suddenly lost my taste for the hunt and rode back to the booley in a state of dejection.

When the hunt was finished and everybody came riding merrily home with both bucks and a couple of does as well, we started seating the family at the long trestle table, set for the feast. But I was shocked to see that Gilleduff O’Flaherty had been seated all the way at the far end of the table while his son, with great fanfare, was placing Donal Crone and his wife, Ellen, right in front of the roast. The two seats opposite them were empty, reserved for Donal and myself.

I knew that Donal considered his uncle the “guest of honor” for the day. Gilleduff ’s brother, Donal Crone O’Flaherty, was the clan’s high chieftain and my Donal worshiped him, honored him excessively and always kissed his arse. I quick went up behind him and pulled my Donal aside.

“What’s your father doin’ at the low end of the table?” I demanded.

“Why is he not near the roast with his brother?”

“Because his brother is The O’Flaherty,” replied Donal with an ugly sneer, “and Gilleduff is not.”

“But he ’s your
father
and deserves to be honored.” The truth was, Gilleduff, as Owen had predicted, had become a rock in my new life, a great shoulder to lean on, especially when Donal’s truculence or drunkenness became too much for one person to bear.

“The chieftain of a clan and his wife are afforded the honors, Grace,” he went on. “And when
I’m
The O’Flaherty, ’twill be me sittin’ before the roast, and you next to me, and I doubt you’ll be complainin’ about it either. Now take your place at the table and shut your mouth.” Well, I was beside myself. I was not about to host a feast that would so dishonor my father-in-law, who by now I loved very dearly. So, quiet like, I came up behind Gilleduff—who was too proud a man to make a fuss—and whispered that there ’d been a mistake with the seating, and that the empty place next to his son, across the roast from his brother, was meant for him. Smiling and gracious I showed him to his place, and ignoring the murderous looks from Donal, walked away, takin’ Gilleduff ’s empty seat at the far end of the trestle.

That night in bed Donal put his hands round my neck and said, as he began to squeeze, that if I ever embarrassed him in public like that again he ’d kill me. His fingers were cuttin’ off the air, and I fought against panic risin’ up in me. Then I got angry and did the only thing I knew would stop him. I grabbed his balls and squeezed them with a bit more force than he was usin’ on my neck. He squealed like a stuck pig and fell out of bed with a great crash. I leaned down and whispered to his writhing self that if he ever so much as looked at me sideways, he ’d spend the rest of his life as a eunuch. What was a eunuch? he asked hoarsely, clutchin’ himself. “A gelding,” I replied, and he moaned, knowing that if nothin’ else, I was good for my word. I lay back smiling and thought about Owen O’Malley and how proud he ’d be of me just then. And then I fell into a peaceful sleep.