A/N: I’m so amazed by everyone’s responses. Thank you all so so very much. You have no idea how much it means that everyone is interested in this FF. Thank you Squawks for the early grammar mistake. I’m a fool sometimes.
In terms of Irish culture, I’ve mentioned a few details about Irish weddings. For the Irish a cloudy or overcast sky on the wedding day can mean absolute disaster for the marriage. They consider it the worst possible omen. This is also true in the case of funeral processions. If there is one on the day of the wedding, the bride and various parties will go on a different route specifically to avoid it.
Just thought that might explain things more.
PS: Jolynn. I replied to your review and would love to hear from you regarding critique and also in terms of plot direction.
two
The grass was unusually soft beneath her feet, caressing her soles and relaxing her in a way that no human being ever could. Out here in the fields she was safe, protected from her father’s demands or the loathed eyes of her fellow townspeople. Unbidden her eyes traveled across the field down towards the town below. It remained as industrious as ever, the blacksmith’s clanging hammer ringing out into the late afternoon air. Smoke still curled up through the air like beacons, allowing her to see which homes were busy.
Buffy noted with fear that her own home remained disturbingly silent. But then her father’s business was not her concern. At least not out here…
Trembling Buffy once more began to walk slowly. Each step made her heels sink deep into the earth, the ground squelching its protest. To her ears it sounded like freedom, reminding her of a lost childhood. As a young girl she had been given relatively free rein. Her mother had been a simple woman, content in tending to the home and Hank for the most part had been too self-involved to take notice in any of her activities.
That had all changed the moment they entered Kilkenny.
Within the village Hank had quickly gained power through the usual bullying tactics and deviousness. To Buffy it was normal behaviour, and she adjusted quickly to the glares of the more foolhardy villagers who hated her parent. Wherever Hank had gone the same always occurred. But never had she faced this much hate.
A sob threatened to sound for a moment as Buffy recalled the vicious taunts which now embroiled around her. They reveled in her misery.
Just three days from now she would be wed. And she didn’t even really know her betrothed…
It was no secret amongst her neighbors that Buffy had protested the match. Her cries had not been stifled enough for them to remain oblivious. The next morning had brought soft words from the elderly women mending clothes but no one else. Her idealism had been well known by everyone and subsequently mocked. They saw it as fitting that she be forced to behave like a ‘proper Irish maid’. Buffy’s dream’s of an actual romance, cherished for so long, were merely fanciful flights of fancy.
Which made her current situation all the more terrible to bear.
Everyone knew that Liam was marrying her in order to curry favour with her father. Hank held so much power that even the Lord Butler in his castle, had invited them to dine inside the cold walls.
It took one sharp slap for Buffy to finally realise her place in the world.
She was merely a possession; a ticket to more power.
More so she was lucky that Hank had not married her off sooner.
And all the villagers knew it. All the girls with uncompromised virtue had been wed during April the year before, in keeping with Irish custom. Her late arrival in Kilkenny had meant that she couldn’t be married till the following year for fear of drawing bad luck on her match. Buffy knew that if the decision had been left to Hank, he would have married her off in the middle of a thunderstorm in the dead of winter. Wed for nearly a year now, the women had regaled Buffy with tales of their marriage days, recalling how soon until she herself could be wed. Their constant reminders had slowly eaten away at her till Buffy could barely think of anything but the match. Now that she knew her fate was to be given to Liam, the day seemed to approach quicker.
She shivered and increased her pace.
The year before had brought only the slightest shower during April and the families had rightly considered it as a blessing. But now Buffy only had to dig her toe into the softened ground to feel the effects of rain. If the mage’s senses were anything to go by, the showers would not let up till late June.
Buffy didn’t need the weather to tell her that the match was cursed.
How could it ever be a happy marriage if she was forced into it?
Though it was foolish, Buffy had found herself quickly becoming ambivalent to the entire situation. Once her chores were completed, she moved almost as though in a dream, detaching herself from the hateful expressions and laughter. She could still feel them, there was no true way of blocking out the loneliness but she found herself no longer caring about her eventual fate. Her heart lived only for the present. Her mind could no longer attach importance to her marriage, the child inside of her still too scared and shocked by her current predicament.
Dismissing Liam’s impact on her life was the only way of accepting her fate.
Tilting her head upwards, Buffy regarded the clouds which lazily drifted over her. Rather than detesting them, she relished their presence. They provided a comfort that she could barely explain beyond the fact that the sun no longer beat down upon her skin. Even now it was rosy from its effects. She scowled for a moment ineffectually before allowing her thoughts to once more wander over Liam.
Out here was the only time she let her fears surface.
To Buffy the sun shining on her on the wedding day would be no different than if it poured. Liam was so foreign, so indescribably cold that she dreaded the very notion of belonging to him. If they met a funeral procession on the way to the ceremony Buffy would consider it just one more omen.
And so would the villagers.
Amongst the peasant folk, Buffy was considered to be cursed. No one felt that Liam would gain anything by marrying her besides an early death. The gossips were so certain of it, that they didn’t bother to hide their conversations when she walked near. If not for her father’s cruelty, Buffy would have been actively spat upon.
She was so alien to them.
The blood of her father’s ancestors blossomed in the colour of her eyes and hair so strongly that it was impossible to pretend she was pure Irish. Rather than the hues of caramel or cherry red, her hair flowed past her shoulders like a waterfall of gold. Perhaps, if it was only her complexion they could have forgiven her yet Buffy made other mistakes. She was constantly mixing her Gaelic phrases, for no other reason than carelessness. She loved to watch the men practice with their bows, wishing that she herself could participate. She wore shoes…
Buffy smiled bitterly as she remembered the day her father brought the useless things home. They were made of rabbit’s hide, the fur left on the inside in order to provide some comfort. The skin on the outside was hard yet malleable from worked in tallow. She had stared at them in surprise until Hank demanded that she put them on.
The gift had at first made her feel loved; that maybe her father did actually care about her as more than a bargaining tool. For the first day she’d worn them proudly, ignoring the sullen glares of her neighbors. It was considered improper for someone so low in the social order to be allowed such a status symbol. Normally only men were thought worthy of the extra protection.
And like a fool she had misplaced the intended isolation as her father’s attempt of affection. In the end Hank wanted her to be hated. It kept him in control of her actions. With no one else to turn to her father could continue to dictate her every move.
And then it’ll be Liam’s turn.
Buffy again dug her foot into the softened earth and sighed in release. Today the hated hide did not bind her, allowing Buffy to savor the earth soaking into her skin. She couldn’t help offering up silent thanks for the rain which had bathed the field.
She already knew the punishment if anyone caught her up here. Though Buffy could not be reprimanded by the normal villager, it would only take one word to Hank before she would face the strap. The shame of facing her betrothed with bruises was enough that she again looked to the village.
No one had seen her.
The sigh of relief was audible as her attention drifted back to the ground. It seemed the gods had given her respite after all. Buffy couldn’t help feeling as though she had earned it though. It was to be her last day as a child. The least she could do was walk barefoot amongst the flowers without fear of Hank’s threats.
Trailing her hand over tall stalks of wheat and various other plants, she noticed a cluster of Heartsease, or Field Pansy to her left. Delighted at finding the flower so soon into April, she settled herself down and peered at the petals closely. Childhood memories of her mother laying the cream colored petals with a yellow and orange tinge on her straw bed were instantaneous. Joyce had loved the variation of what many considered a weed. She had said that it spoke of the Irish in general.
It made Buffy wonder why it was that Joyce had ever agreed to marry someone like Hank. His ancestry meant relatively little to anyone; the Normans had already integrated themselves into Irish customs and readily accepted their heritage. In her mind she could see Joyce as a young girl, ready to marry and having the pick of the town.
To choose Hank willingly would have been nigh impossible.
Her hand clenched around the smooth green stalk, tightening slowly. If her mother’s circumstances had been anything like her own, Hank would have manipulated the entire courtship.
Unbidden the memories of her childhood rose to the surface, images of her playing the fields interspersed with the deafening yells of her father. She had been sheltered from it back then by Joyce’s willingness to obey and please. Whatever Hank had demanded she gave with all the grace a village woman could muster. Even when her husband had taunted her ancestry, degraded her in front of the other men she never complained.
To Joyce, serving your husband was the ultimate role for a woman. She never questioned the morality of Hank’s actions.
It was not her place to.
And now neither could Buffy.
She didn’t have to listen hard to hear of Liam’s exploits in the local tavern. Nor did she bother imagining his face contorted in anger. Anyone her father had chosen would be just as barbaric as him.
Her hand slowly moved upwards from the bruised stem, clenching hard around the flower’s petals. She didn’t even notice the slight sound of troubled earth as she ruthlessly ripped it from the ground, her thoughts becoming that much more troubling.
It was these very thoughts that kept her from hearing the sound of hoof beats until the beast was nearly upon her.
She did however see him.
Buffy scrambled back in fear as imperious cold eyes swept over her form.
“What are you doing in my field?”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm going to start writing the next chapter tomorrow and I promise to reply to everyone's reviews by tomorrow also. Thank you so much for your amazing responses. I hope this doesn't disappoint. My email is hipster2322@hotmail.com if anyone wants to email me about criticisms etc. R&R