Chapter One
Drogheda, Ireland 1075
The head of the once powerful MacNaughton Clan lay dying a slow, agonizing death. The great Padraig MacNaughton would be mourned by hundreds, some who knew him well, some who only knew of him, but none would miss him as much as his only daughter, Brighit. She stood beside the bed, willing him to open his eyes and acknowledge her presence.
The darkened room reeked of sickness and putrefaction, adding to the malevolent sense of death-come-too-soon. Brighit couldn’t take a deep breath. Her lungs too tight with emotion, her senses clogged with noxious fumes.
She was desperate to speak to her father one more time. To convince him not to send her away from her home, her family, her security. She leaned in close to his ear.
“I love you, da.” She strained her voice to keep the whisper unheard by Aunt Ruth. Her bent shape milled in the shadows about the far side of the bed, straightening the covers, adjusting his bed cap.
Idle hands.
The older woman’s shoulders seemed to bend even more with the weight of caring for her last remaining brother. Her features froze into a permanent, disapproving scowl. Her eyes downcast as if always in a state of penance.
Brighit kneeled beside the bed. “Father?”
No response.
Auntie tucked the blanket tighter around his emaciated frame without so much as a glance her way.
Brighit felt certain she was being sent away out of fear. Fear of a forced marriage with the O’Brien. Her father had withdrawn his support, cut all ties, and broken the betrothal between Tisa O’Brien and Brighit’s brother, Tadhg, earlier. All were shocked by the decision but no one would gainsay him. Even when it made things so much harder for the MacNaughton Clan to be without the support of their more powerful neighbor, no one had said a word.
Her mother might have been able to change his mind but she had just passed on. Brighit’s eyes rimmed with tears. The shock of having lost her mother was still so fresh and now this. Her entire family was being ripped away from her and her heart squeezed with the pain of the loss.
At the recent suggestion of a new match between the two clans, her father had become incensed despite being given the pick of any one of the O’Brien’s five strong sons. He had refused the new match as if he’d been offered a deal with the devil himself. It had inflamed the ongoing hostility between the two clans. Once very close, the cause for the rift was known only to her father and he held fast to his decision to separate from the larger, stronger clan.
The wind pressed against the thatched roof, shoving its way through the wooden shutters. The unrelenting desire to whip open the windows and let in the fresh air, the outside world, the life they used to have, clawed at her gut. She’d never have that life again.
Dread snaked its way through her bowels. Now father had asked for her, wanting to talk to her about her future. Make his decree. He didn’t seem to even know she was there.
Da’s chest rose with the sudden intake of air. Both women jumped at the sound of his raspy breathing.
“Auntie?” Brighit began to reach toward the stoic woman before thinking better of the gesture. Her pathetic plea for assistance reverberated in that one word.
Yes, her desperation had surely hit the lowest point of her life to seek the older woman’s guidance.
Aunt Ruth’s hand paused just above the blanket then gently squeezed his hand. She dropped close to his ear.
“Padraig? Brighit’s come to see you.” She finally looked at Brighit. “He hasn’t awakened since he asked for you last night.”
Auntie Ruth’s voice was solemn and Brighit understood the implications. He might never awaken again.
He drew in another deep breath, shifting like one coming out of a deep sleep.
“Brighit?” He called her name, his eyes bare slits in his gaunt face, seeking her in the darkness. His clouded eyes probably saw very little so Brighit was quick to take his hand.
“Yes. I’m here.” She regretted sounding so distraught.
Auntie Ruth returned to the other side of the bed, fluffed his pillow, and picked up her needlepoint. There wasn’t much else for her to do, but she was determined to stay. She would stand as the only other witness to Padraig MacNaughton’s dying wishes.
“Ah, Brighit, my lovely daughter.” Her father brushed her chin with his fingertips before he found her cheek and cupped it with his cold, weathered hand. Perhaps he didn’t notice the dampness from her tears.
He shook his head slowly. “Sorry I am that I’ve not been able to find a good husband for you, Daughter.”
He was about to decree her future fate. She struggled to breathe as if she were being shoved under water. She knew in her heart he would be wrong in what he was about to tell her.
“Da, Sean O’Cisoghe would be a fine husband.”
