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‘It’s not my fault. I was pushed, Mother. And that man deserved a smack for being rude.’
‘You cannot hit a man in broad daylight in the marketplace in front of our friends,’ said her mother, nodding and smiling at the horrid Fenella and her noxious family as they pointed and giggled.
‘I can if he insults me,’ said Orla, as her mother hauled her off away from their friends.
‘Oh, this will not do, Orla. It will not do at all. Tidy yourself, and go and look for Bronach, for you cannot meet my friends in that state. And damn her eyes for wandering off and leaving us to this rabble. I am going to get some refreshment, and you will not disturb me until you have found the chit or I will take the birch to both of you.’
Her mother snatched the parcel from her hands and rushed off. The crowd had dispersed, but some folk still stared and pointed, damn their eyes. They had had their fun, and now she was left muddied, dishevelled and alone.
Men were an absolute torment, forever such fools, drinking and debauching and fighting and pushing women over into the mud. And that smirking one. Who was he to laugh at her? She dearly wished she could have slapped him across the face too.
***
A long while later, Orla’s boots were beginning to pinch. The mud had dried on her bottom, and there was a whiff of the farmyard coming off it. She wiped her hair off her face and trudged on, searching for the wretched Bronach. She had gone full circle about the square and down many side streets in the warren of cobbled alleyways, and still, she could find no trace of her. Bronach had been sent to the apothecary to get powders for her mother’s vapours. Maybe if she went there, she could find a trace of the empty-headed twit. An alleyway leading off the main square looked familiar, so Orla followed it.
The alleys were bustling at first, full of folk going about their business, but soon, they grew quieter away from the main square. Orla took many twists and turns, but she soon found herself lost and at the heart of a square, overshadowed by run-down houses, casting shadows everywhere. Her heart sank. There were pathways leading in all directions, and no one around to ask the way. And it was so quiet and deserted.
A sound made her freeze. It was a woman’s voice, coming from behind some barrels stacked in a dark corner.
‘Oh God, no, no, I cannot bear it. God save me, you are a devil.’
Someone was in trouble, moaning in pain. Could it be Bronach? Orla rushed over, rounded the barrels and stopped dead.
Two people were writhing against the wall. A man was pressed, belly to belly, with a woman who had her skirts pulled up and her pale legs wrapped about his waist.
‘Harder. Do it now, harder. Oh, you bastard,’ squealed the woman, sinking her fingers into his hair and pulling his mouth to hers. Then she clapped eyes on Orla.
For a moment, the two women were frozen, with their mouths hanging open, as the man continued thrusting enthusiastically. The woman shoved him away.
‘For the love of God, woman. Can you not let me finish?’ growled the man.
‘We have company,’ spat the woman.
The man turned his head, met Orla’s eyes briefly, turned back to his companion and laughed. ‘Don’t fash. ‘Tis no one.’
‘Fash? If word gets out, and reaches my husband’s ears, I am done for,’ said the woman, pulling down her skirts, glowering at Orla, and then running off.
The man sighed heavily and began to stuff himself back inside his breeches. ‘You should not spy on people, lass,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Now you’ve spoiled my afternoon’s sport.’ He stopped his rearranging and turned again with a grin. ‘Care to take her place?’
‘Sport? What do you think you are about?’ said Orla.
‘I would have thought that was obvious, lass,’ said the man. His swarthy, handsome face was not the kind one could forget. It was the man who had offered his hand to her in the brawl, and now she had a good look at him, he was younger than she had first thought but just as heart-thumpingly handsome. His flashing dark eyes held no shame, just mirth. It was clear he found her presence amusing.
‘By God, you are a blackguard. It is broad daylight in a public square, and you are…you are….’
‘What? Tupping a lass? ‘Tis a free country, last I looked.’ The man cast about him, left and right. ‘And it’s not that public. There’s no one about but you and I.’
Indeed the square was deserted, and a cold dread pricked at Orla’s spine, yet she found her courage. ‘What you are doing is indecent and vile and….’
‘She didn’t think so, and who named you the moral authority, lass? He took a step closer. ‘Tell me. Have I been discovered by a nun that you would preach at me so?’
‘I am no nun. I am merely pointing out that it is wrong to rut like a beast out in the open.’
‘Beast is it?’ He smirked, her insult bouncing off him. ‘You are not much better. And now I think on it, you cannot be a nun, for it was but an hour or two since I saw you brawling in the mud with drunkards.’
‘That was not my fault, nor my choice, and it is not important. It is wrong of you to behave this way.’
‘A man has needs, and leave your preaching. If I wanted a sermon, I’d go to the kirk.’ He looked her over arrogantly. ‘And you protest so much anyone would think you were jealous, lass.’
