All the Sweet Tomorrows (89 page)

“He has come to ask for your hand in marriage, Willow,” Skye answered, thinking that her daughter was perhaps a trifle too pert. “I am not sure you are old enough, however.”

“Mama!” Willow shrieked, and blushing, she turned to James Edwardes. “Mama is not teasing? You really want to marry me?”

The earl looked down at Willow with a tender expression in his brown eyes. “My dear, I have wanted to marry you from the moment I first set eyes on you. Will you have me, Willow? I will do my best to make you happy.” Boldly he drew her close to him, and gazed into her face.

Looking up at him, Willow whispered, “Oh, James, I did not dare to hope. Yes! Oh, yes! I shall be so proud to be your wife!”

The earl bent to kiss Willow, and Skye felt Adam reach for her hand. She looked at him, and he saw the tears in her eyes. He knew her thoughts in that moment. She was thinking of Willow’s father, Khalid el Bey. “He would be proud of her,” Adam said softly.

“Yes,” she answered him, “he would be proud of her.” And then Skye thought of how she had kept Willow safe all these years, safe to reach adulthood, to marry a fine young man like James Edwardes. Yes, Khalid would be content.

Willow looked positively radiant, all rosy with blushes, and the earl was suddenly very sure of himself and totally masculine. Skye and Adam both smiled at the young couple, and then Skye spoke.

“You cannot be married until next spring after Willow’s fifteenth birthday,” she said, “and you must have the Queen’s permission. She becomes, I have found, most irritable when not kept informed with regard to the lives of her courtiers.”

The earl nodded, and then turned to Adam. “When would you like to sign the betrothal agreements, my lord?”

“Not until after the Queen has given her permission, Alcester. We will not give Elizabeth Tudor the chance to spoil your happiness by claiming that she was not informed from the very beginning.”

The Queen was told that evening that the widowed Earl of Alcester wished to marry Mistress Willow Small, a maid of honor. Looking at the pair, Elizabeth Tudor was strangely
touched. Usually the defection of one of her maids was cause for a temper tantrum; and in the short time Willow had been at court the Queen had grown fond of the young girl. Still, Willow’s innocence was unquestionable, and Alcester was known to be an honorable man. “If I give my permission,” the Queen said, “when would the marriage be celebrated, madam?” and she looked at Skye.

“Not until after Willow’s birthday next April, Majesty,” came the calm reply.

The Queen nodded. It was a respectable amount of time for a proper betrothal period. “I am happy to give my permission for your daughter to wed with the Earl of Alcester, Lady de Marisco. I shall expect to be invited to the wedding provided that you have settled things in Ireland by then.”

“I shall do my best, madam,” Skye said demurely. Not for the world would she spoil Willow’s good fortune.

There was a knock at the door of the Queen’s closet where they had been gathered, and Elizabeth called out her permission to enter. The door opened to reveal Sir Christopher Hatton, who was carrying something in his arms.

“You sent for this, Majesty.”

“Give it to Lady de Marisco,” the Queen commanded.

Hatton handed his bundle to Skye, and with pounding heart she took it as the woolen cloak fell away to reveal the sleeping Velvet. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered as Adam leapt to her side with a soft oath to gaze down at their daughter. With a gentle fìnger he touched Velvet’s pink cheek, and the baby opened her blue eyes to sleepily murmur, “Papa,” at him.

“Now, madam,” Elizabeth said, “you have your daughter back. When do you leave for Ireland?”

“As soon as I have settled my children, Majesty.”

The Queen, who knew that little Velvet was her godchild, chucked the baby under the chin, and said, “Court is no place for my goddaughter. I assume that you will send her to Devon, but what of young Mistress Burke and her brother? Would you allow them to remain here at court? Lord Burke may join my pages, and his sister would be safe in the Countess of Lincoln’s household.”

Skye knew that Elizabeth Tudor was demanding her children as hostages for her success in Ireland. “Lord Burke,” she said, “I know would be thrilled to take his place among your pages, madam, and with his brother, the earl, to watch over him I know he would be safe. My daughter, Deirdre, however, is another matter. Although I feel she would be better off with the countess,
she carries a fear of being separated from me again. Might we leave that decision up to her?”

The Queen’s face softened with sympathy. She understood the fears of a lonely child well, having been motherless since age three. “Of course,” she agreed. “If mistress Deirdre wishes to go with you I will understand.”

Much to Skye’s surprise, Deirdre wanted to stay with Geraldine FitzGerald, the lovely Countess of Lincoln. Like her sister and her brothers, the little girl was fascinated by the Tudor court. It was one thing to be left with an elderly uncle or aunt, but to be left at court was quite another matter! Skye felt almost betrayed, and grumbled indignantly. Adam, however, found the whole thing amusing on one hand, and very fortuitous on the other.

“Your mission is a serious one, sweetheart,” he said. “It is better we not be encumbered by the children. I fear not the Queen’s captivity, but in Ireland it could be dangerous for them to be used as pawns.”

She knew that he was right, and so they drove down to Devon where Velvet was left safely at Wren Court with Dame Cecily. Told of Willow’s betrothal, Dame Cecily burst into tears, sobbing that she was so very, very happy for her baby.

“I can’t believe she’s old enough to wed,” the good woman wept joyously. “ ’twas only yesterday I was changing her nappies.”

Skye smiled to herself as she patted her old friend comfortingly. Willow, she thought, amused, would be simply mortified to be reminded of such a thing. She reassured Dame Cecily that James Edwardes was a wonderful man, and the perfect husband for Willow.

Then Skye took the opportunity to see Daisy’s two small sons. Both looked like their father but for their gap-toothed smiles, which were their inheritance from their mother. The de Mariscos did not stay long in Devon though, departing the day after their arrival for Innisfana Island, on the west coast of Ireland, the ancestral home of Skye O’Malley.

Skye had taken the precaution to send a message on ahead calling her brothers into a family council. She knew that were they not on Innisfana they would be easy to reach for Grace O’Malley’s sailors never ventured far from Ireland. It had been a long while since she had seen them, over five years, and in that time they had squandered everything she had built up for the O’Malleys since her father’s death. She knew that her gentle and soft-spoken stepmother had exercised no control over her four
sons; but why had she allowed them to take up with Grace O’Malley? She knew her brothers well enough to know that they were not patriots. She could only conclude that they had joined with Grace simply for the fun of a little hell-raising.

It was not harmless fun, however, Skye thought, and had her own family not been so intimately involved, she would have let her half-brothers pursue their own destructive course. She had no future in Ireland, and neither now did any of her children. She agreed with Elizabeth Tudor, who had said: “There is only one Christ Jesus, and one faith; the rest is a dispute about trifles.” She and the Queen would never be friends, but Skye’s loyalty was never seriously questioned, for her views were Erastian enough to protect her.

They sailed south into St. George’s Channel, around Cape Clear, and north to Innisfana. It was November now, and the northerlies were sweeping down the Atlantic from the Arctic. Still the sky was clear, and although cold, it was pleasant sailing. Only once did they see another sail on the horizon, but that was from a ship inward bound to England from the New World, and they did not pass within hailing distance of each other.

Skye owned eight ships, and they were all with her, having by fortunate coincidence been in England at this time when she needed them. Like all the O’Malley ships, they were sleek and built for speed as well as cargo. Each one was well armed in order to defend itself, and as a fleet they were a powerful weapon, particularly since they had added more cannon as they were carrying no cargo this time.

Several days before they sailed Skye had assembled all her crews, and spoken quite frankly to them about why she was going home, and the fact that they might find themselves in a fight. About half her men were Irish, and she offered them the opportunity to remain in port and take passage on other vessels rather than fight their own people.

Bran Kelly spoke for the Irish. “We’re your men, and our loyalty is to you, the O’Malley. We’ve all got family in Ireland, most of our people on Innisfana or O’Flaherty lands. If yer brothers cause more trouble with the English it’s our women and children who’ll bear the brunt of their vengeance.”

There came a chorus of ayes as the Irish nodded and whispered among themselves.

“We’d just as soon stick by you, m’lady,” Bran continued, and the rest of the men again nodded their agreement.

There was little to do on the voyage, and Skye spent a good deal of time pacing restlessly about the decks, or leaning over
the bow rail staring hard ahead into the endless horizon. She disliked dissension, and because she must reassert her clan authority upon her brothers she was going to cause much dissension within her family. She wondered how Anne would react. Would she agree with her stepdaughter, or would she side blindly with her beloved sons?

“Dammit,” Skye said aloud, “it was not up to me to raise them! Why could Anne have not been strong?”

Adam stood behind his wife, his strong arms wrapped about her lithe form. “You judge people by your own yardstick, Skye,” he said softly. “Most women are not strong like you. They are meek, gentle creatures who rely upon their men for everything, including their very thoughts. Anne O’Malley has been widowed for sixteen years now. Her whole life has been the memory of your father, and her boys.”

“My dear brothers, who have all been spoiled rotten and obviously have no sense of responsibility,” Skye fussed. “I sent them to the sea to learn its ways, and I saw that they were taught to read and to write, and to do their numbers. Yet they waste everything I have built up for them, and they play at rebellion without a care for their families or their people. In Da’s time a man might be a freebooter without incurring the royal wrath, but times have changed.”

“Yes, little girl, you see that, for you are out in the world, but your brothers have never left Ireland, and have no desire to do so. Change is slow in coming to your green and misty land, Skye. Your people are a hundred years behind England, and you know it.”

Skye pressed her lips tightly in a narrow line of disapproval. There was no use talking, for talk would change nothing. Adam was right, Ireland was behind the times. She sighed deeply with regret, and wondered if she could really prevent her four half-brothers from destroying themselves, from destroying Innisfana and their people.

“Is this a fool’s chase?” she asked Adam, turning her face up to his.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. You can only try.”

“Damn Grace O’Malley,” Skye said vehemently. “She plays the power game, as does the Queen. But I’ll not let her destroy us. I’ll not!”

G
RACE
O’Malley, the pirate queen of Connaught, looked directly at Anne O’Malley, her kinswoman, and then said to her first in command: “Signal my ship to fire on anyone attempting to enter Innisfana’s harbor without my permission.”

“Aye,” the man grunted, and went off to do his mistress’s bidding.

“You can’t do that!” Anne protested. “My stepdaughter, the O’Malley, will be arriving any day now. ’Tis her domain, and you’ve no authority over it.”

“She forfeited her authority when she married an Englishman,” Grace spat.

“Aye,” Brian O’Malley agreed. “I’m the O’Malley now, Mother.”

“Unless Skye passes on her responsibility to you, Brian, as your father passed it on to her, you’re not,” Anne snapped, “and none of our people will recognize you as such.”

“Shut yer mouth, woman,” Grace ordered rudely, and with an outraged look Anne fell silent.

There was going to be some difficulty when Skye finally came, Anne knew. Skye and Grace would detest each other on sight, but she prayed that her stepdaughter could right things. Most of it was her own fault, Anne realized. She had been so lost after Dubhdara had died, and she had clung to her sons,
indulging and spoiling them so they would love her and she wouldn’t be alone. They had grown into four big mirror images of their father, but they had not Dubhdara O’Malley’s strength of character.

They were, Anne was ashamed to admit, weak but well meaning men who drank too much, and wenched too much, and were given to foolishness, such as pirating with their distant cousin, Grace, and her men. Eventually the English were going to descend on Innisfana and wreak their vengeance. Thank God that Skye was coming home! She would set everything to rights, even this matter of Grace O’Malley.