The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell

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.