Skye O'Malley

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“What the hell do you mean she can have no more children?”
demanded Dubhdara O’Malley of his brother. The O’Malley,
chief of Clan O’Malley, was a big man, six-foot-four, arms
and legs like thick tree limbs; ruddy, sunburnt skin, snapping
blue eyes, and a mop of dark hair that was just getting a sprinkling
of silver. “You priests are always prating that the purpose of marriage
is to procreate. Well, I’ve done what the Church wanted, I’ve gotten
children on her, and not one of them a living son! Now you tell me
I must stop? But I don’t suppose you’ll be granting me an annulment
so I can wed with some fresh and healthy blood? Faugh! You make
me sick!”

Father Seamus O’Malley, looking almost his brother’s twin
though not quite as dark of skin, viewed Dubhdara with genuine
sympathy and understanding. He knew how he felt, but there was
just no help for it. His sister-in-law couldn’t take another pregnancy.
The midwife had been quite certain about that. Another child would
take Lady O’Malley’s life. That would be outright murder.

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