Irish Lady (9 page)

“There hasn't been a Tirconnaill since the seventeenth century,” Meghann said flatly.

Nuala laughed, stood, and brushed the sand from her skirt. “Don't be absurd,” she said and began walking down the beach. “There will always be a Tirconnaill.”

“Wait.” Battling the wind that didn't seem to affect Nuala at all, Meghann struggled to her feet. “I don't know where you're staying,” she shouted. “How can I reach you?”

“No need to worry, Meghann,” Nuala called over her shoulder. “I'll be the one reaching you.”

Something didn't make sense. Nuala was definitely odd, but people inhabiting the more primitive parts of Ireland had never really caught up to the rest of the world. Imagine knowing nothing about Sinn Fein. Perhaps Nuala couldn't read. Illiteracy was not uncommon among the older generation. But Nuala wasn't old. Maybe it was something else. Maybe the woman was simpleminded or mentally handicapped. Still, she had seemed lucid enough.

Meghann's logical mind discarded solutions as quickly as she thought of them. Eventually she put the entire matter aside. There could be no satisfying answer to explain Nuala's shocking political ignorance or her own released inhibition.

It wasn't until much later, after Meghann turned down the heat from under the lamb chops and served them up on plates, that she realized what it was that could not be explained away to oddness, coincidence, or compassion. Not once, in their entire conversation, could she remember introducing herself, and yet Nuala had used her name more than once. She shook off her doubts. They were sheer nonsense. She must have told the woman her name.

Michael was subdued when she called him into the kitchen for dinner. He commented politely on the lamb and potatoes, liberally buttered his bread, ate two bites, excused himself and went upstairs to bed. He climbed laboriously, hanging heavily on the bannister, taking an inordinately long time on the stairs. Meghann listened to his dragging step, bit her lip, folded her arms tightly against her chest and forced herself to remain in the kitchen. Something told her he wouldn't appreciate her help.

Hours later she finished the last of her notes, closed her book, and slipped the pen back into its leather pocket holder. The words she'd written were without substance, giving her no satisfaction. There had to be someone out there who knew something, someone who couldn't stand by and allow an innocent man to be imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. She slipped off her shoes, pulled the ottoman under her legs, and wiggled her toes.

In the fireplace, names sizzled and licked at the peat, warming her feet through the thick wool of her socks. Rain slanted against the seaward side of the cottage and lashed against the windows, rattling the diamond panes. Already the combination of heat and moisture had fogged the glass, cocooning her in a private world of orange flame and yellow light and the clean, earth-turned smell of peat fuel.

What had Nuala meant when she said they would work on her problem with Sinn Fein? How absurd to think a small, oddly dressed woman with an archaic speech pattern actually believed she could help. She'd said it with complete confidence, as if all she had to do was decide and whatever she wanted was accomplished. Wouldn't it be wonderful to live with that kind of certainty, to believe that wanting was the same as having?

It seemed to Meghann that she never had that confidence, that she was born old, that laughter and the easy, carefree, exhilarating trappings of childhood had always eluded her. Annie lived in the present, as did all the Devlins. Meghann remembered what it was like to be drawn into the warmth of their vital sense of awareness, tasting sweet on the tongue, feeling cold on the skin, hearing music in the soul, and knowing that the slow, delicious bubble of humor would rise within and spill out into the air with the clear magical clarity of a choirboy's hymn. Even in times of desperation, the barricade of the Lower Falls in West Belfast, the riots in Andersonstown, Bernadette's time in prison, the funerals of Annie's two sons, Michael's arrest, the dreadful hopeless poverty of living as a Catholic in Belfast, the Devlin family was alive in ways that she had never been.

In all her years in Annie's house, living in the midst of the raw purity of Devlin emotions, Meghann could count the moments when she had allowed herself to feel even a small measure of what Michael Devlin felt every moment of every day. Even before the events of Cupar Street had wiped out her world as she knew it and irrevocably changed her life, Meghann wondered if she'd ever known that kind of awareness. She wondered if she ever would. Perhaps if she knew what it was they felt, if she could experience a small portion of it, if she could understand why people as brilliant and talented and devoted as the Devlin offspring would offer up their lives on the altar of Irish patriotism instead of leaving for London, America, or Australia, she might just be able to help Michael through this mockery of a murder trial.

Nuala, Tirconnaill, 1590

It was nine months to the day after we bedded that our son was born, a healthy lad made in the image of Rory, with a head of silver-gilt hair and eyes the blue of the Irish Sea. We named him Patrick. I, who had worried that my temperament was not suited to motherhood, understood for the first time what it meant to love a child.

Rory was more than pleased. It was as though no one had ever before sired a son. I'll warrant the matter of an heir was of some importance. Rory's father had succumbed to the fever, and there was the earldom to consider. Still, Patrick was just a wee babe, and when I think of the months that followed, Rory should have taken more care and I should have weaned my babe from the breast and insisted that he stay behind where it was warm and safe.

Ireland's troubles began long before I was born. Elizabeth Tudor was always one to meddle, even when her gain was less than a morsel of the vast holdings that were already hers.

To be fair, everything my father had, even his life, he owed to her. He grew up at Whitehall under the queen's guardianship after Shane O'Neill, his uncle, would have slain him as he did my grandfather. It was at the English court that my father learned the manners of a gentleman, kept his holdings, and came back to Ireland with his title and lands intact. But that was a long time and many promises ago. Elizabeth became greedy, and in her place she sent her man Sir Philip Sidney, who tried to push the Irish west of the River Bann and settle Englishmen on the coastlands of Antrim and Down.

But the Irish are fierce fighters and not so easily subdued. Sir Philip went home in disgrace, and Sir Thomas Smith was sent in his stead. Again, 'tis hearsay I repeat for I was not yet born, but the bards are skilled and the tales they tell no one can dispute. Sir Thomas wished to sweep away all the native Irish except for peasants to till the fields. Every Irishman born in Ireland or of Irish descent was prevented from purchasing land, holding office, or bearing arms upon pain of death. Sir Thomas did not live long in Ireland. My father killed him in the year fifteen hundred and seventy-two, shortly after my sister Kieran was born.

After Smith's death the queen gave Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, all of Antrim to pursue Smith's evil policy. Essex made the most dreadful of mistakes and in so doing forever alienated my father and the O'Neills from the English crown.

It happened the night I came into the world. My father would have gone to Belfast Castle to sup with his cousin, Brian O'Neill, who had offered the hand of friendship to Essex. But out of consideration for my mother's difficult birthing he stayed behind. The morning after, a bloodstained herald rode across the drawbridge and told of betrayal and murder, of Brian beheaded and Maired, his wife, beautiful, laughing Maired, raped until her screams sent the pigeons from the rafters. When her captors would hear no more they cut out her tongue and left her bleeding to death on the Great Hall floor while they burned the castle around her.

In a fury as white-hot as the flames that destroyed his clansmen, my father rode to London with his witness and shamed Elizabeth before her entire court. She withdrew her support from Essex, but she never forgave my father. From then on they were enemies, and the bitterness of their feud lasted for the next sixteen years until it swept throughout Ireland like a mighty wave, destroying everyone in its path without regard for rank or station. All of us fell in, in one way or another, without protest, even I. For I was born in the midst of my father's enmity for Elizabeth and knew no other way. It wasn't until her icy fingers closed over Rory and my innocent baby son that the rage grew within me, and all of Ireland learned why the bards called me my father's daughter.

Motherhood changes a woman. From the moment Patrick was born I could feel the difference in me. It was not that I loved the babe more than Rory; it was just that he needed me so much more than I had ever been needed before. It was frightening, the enormity of his need. The newness of him and the dreadful possibility that his fragile life could be immediately snuffed out consumed me until I was either with him every waking moment or counting the time until I could be.

Not that Rory complained, of course. He knew that it was a woman's way to care for her child until it grew out of infancy. Too many died in their first winter after they were taken off the breast. He would not have it so with his son. But he did think that my refusal to dine with Sir John Perrot on his Spanish galleon was exercising caution to the extreme.

He followed me into our bedchamber and there he tried to reason with me. “'Tis only for one night, Nuala. The boy has his nurse. He won't miss you.”

“There is more to this than leaving the bairn.” My words were deliberate, as if I were explaining my thoughts to someone slow to understand. “Perrot has been seen with Captain Willis, the same Captain Willis who sent his men to raid and debauch on our land. I trust him not, Rory, and you are more the fool if you do. Besides, Niall Garv will be there, and he has not forgiven my father for allowing me to marry you.”

“Niall is my own cousin. You have nothing to fear from him,” he said stiffly. “I love you dearly, Nuala, but you are a woman and I will stand no woman on earth to call me fool.” He pulled a fresh tunic over his head. “Stay here if you must. I go to sample the sack without you. 'Tis said to be fine wine. Perhaps I shall bring some back to the cellars.”

“Rory.” There was desperation in my voice but he heeded me not. “Please don't do this. Patrick is too young. I cannot hold Tirconnaill for him if you are taken.”

“Nuala, Nuala.” He sat down beside me on the bed and drew me into his arms. “You make too much of this. I will return before midnight.”

I lifted my face for his kiss and heard his breath shorten. “By God, Nuala, what have you done to me?” he muttered. “I have no desire for Perrot's wine. I want only you.”

My mouth opened under his. “Stay with me,” I whispered against his lips.

Reluctantly he pulled away. “I cannot. Wait for me.” I hesitated and then nodded. “I shall wait, Rory, and I'll not rest until I have you safe at home again.”

It was two years before I saw him again. Two years during which he endured filth and darkness, freezing rain and biting wind and ragged clothing. Two years of lice and mealworms in his bread, of seeping wounds and iron shackles and wet stone floors. Two years of starvation, of begging for alms. Two years of wondering whether he'd been left for dead and whether the bairn who had just begun to smile would ever know his father.

The treachery began with a meal and a greeting and a goblet of the finest sack ever to find its way to Donegal harbor. The McSweeneys had also been invited, and together the men raised their goblets many times until they forgot the number. It was late when Rory first knew that something was wrong. He told me of how the deck rolled beneath his feet and how he felt the wash of a wave against the hull. His feet were too heavy to lift, and as he sat there pondering the reasons for the strange noises he heard, their hosts left them. The door to the cabin was locked, and they were alone for days until they sailed into Dublin harbor.

There, they were shackled with irons, marched to the prison surrounded by water and left to starve with the thirty or so pathetic souls who had been pledged to the Crown as hostages. Among them were Art and Henry O'Neill, my brothers. There was no hope of escape, no contact with the outside world. Every twenty-four hours a guard examined their irons to be sure they were intact. Time passed, month after month, season after season, until I despaired of seeing Rory again.

*

Tyrone, 1590

I faced my father bravely, for I had little to lose. “He is my husband, your ally. Will you leave him to die?”

His wide forehead was furrowed and grave. “I have done all that I can. Two thousand pounds bounty is no small sum. Elizabeth refuses us. She was always obstinate.”

My foot itched and I longed to stamp it, to throw myself upon the floor to kick and scream, much as I had as a child. But I was twice a mother, or nearly so, and my screaming days were over. “Why will she not take the money?” I asked quietly.

My father shrugged, and for the first time I saw his age. “She will not listen to me. 'Tis your mother's MacDonnell blood she despises. The massacre at Rathin is still fresh.”

“The MacDonnells were killed, not the English.”

Red Hugh shrugged. “She holds it against us.”

Helplessness washed over me. “What can we do?” I asked.

“Wait and pray.”

The temper rose within me. “God is not so poor-spirited, Father. I'll not sit and wait until my husband's soul has left his body.”

“What will you do, Nuala?”

If he would not help, I would not answer. My plan was simple, but first the child would be born. I returned to Tirconnaill and she came within the week, on a day so cold the trees snapped as ice swelled within their trunks, a small red-haired girl, blue and weak from seeking the mortal world too soon. She took a breath, opened her eyes, and saw that this place outside the womb was neither warm nor kind and quietly slipped away. I named her Joan and buried her in the monastery crypt.

My heart was sore, but my breasts were full and Patrick had been weaned too soon. He thrived on the milk that belonged to my small dead daughter, and I could not be sorry that he looked so well. God willing, there would be more children. For now, Elizabeth waited in London, and if she refused me, there was always the hope that with luck and a strong rope smuggled in at just the right time, Rory would escape.

*

London, 1591

Elizabeth was nothing like I imagined. She had little beauty, and with her shaved skull and the stiff ruff that forced her chin up into an unnatural angle, she looked particularly odd. So this was the virgin queen who would take no man to her bed. More likely it was the other way around. I sensed that she knew my thoughts, for her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Much later I learned that it was not the workings of my mind that bothered her. It was my youth, my red hair so different from her own, and the rather startling effect my appearance had on the men at court.

I had never known men like these before. Growing up in Tyrone, I was protected by my father's rank. As Rory's wife, no one in Tirconnaill would dare shame me with their suggestive looks, their ribald whispers, and their wandering hands. The queen could not know that I preferred the company of my husband and therefore looked at me, her supposed rival, with dagger eyes.

My audience with her came sooner than expected, most likely because she hoped to send me home as quickly as possible, a hope I heartily shared. Patrick did not thrive in the dirt of London, and there were more hacking coughs at Elizabeth's court than in the entire county of Tirconnaill.

I wore my finest gown, an absurd act of vanity. Elizabeth did not care if I dressed in rags. I knelt at her feet and waited for several minutes before she spoke.

“Rise, child,” she said in her dry, cracked voice. “What is the reason you have sought audience with the Crown?”

I kept my eyes on the floor. Elizabeth approved of humility. “My husband, the earl of Tirconnaill, has spent the better part of two years imprisoned in Dublin Castle. He has done nothing to warrant this outrage, Your Majesty. He is a loyal subject of the queen. Never once has he taken up arms against your Royal Highness. I beg you to release him.”

Not by the blink of an eyelash did her thoughts reveal themselves. The tapping of her fingernail against the carved oak of her throne was the only sound in the hushed room. I thought it odd that she should meet with me alone, without the lord chamberlain at her side to advise her.

After a long time she spoke. “You are Red Hugh's daughter, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Your mother is the Lady Agnes MacDonnell, kin to the MacDonnells of the Isles.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Your father has written me many times hoping to secure your husband's release. Why should I do this for you if not for him?”

I lifted startled eyes to her face. “Rather should you ask why you haven't done it already, Your Majesty.”

Her scarlet-tinted mouth tightened. “Insolent one. Do you hope to release your husband by insulting me?”

“Never, Your Majesty. It is said that you are England's wisest monarch. I had hoped to prevail upon your sense of justice. My husband has done nothing more than marry my father's daughter. Why would you imprison a man for that?”

“Your father can no longer be trusted. He will not put aside his MacDonnell wife.”

“We are Catholic, Your Grace. It is not possible to dissolve the bonds of marriage when a man and woman have been wed for five and twenty years.”

Again Elizabeth tapped the armrest of her throne. I waited in suspense for her reply. Finally she spoke. “What manner of man is your husband?”

This time I was caught. I had not expected such a question. “Why, he is a good man, Your Grace,” I stammered, “although nothing like my father. He is a warrior and his loyalties run deep.” I gained confidence as I thought of what Rory meant to the people of Tirconnaill. I could not tell her that my husband, as hotheaded and passionate as my father was cool and cynical, was fast becoming a legend in Ireland, the image of a warrior clansman who could stir the common folk into a patriotic fever not seen since the days of Brian Boru.

“He is content to stay in Tirconnaill and administer to his lands and his family,” I said instead. “We are wed but four years, Your Grace. I know little of running an earldom.” I sensed that these words alone would not free my husband. “Rory is a popular lord,” I continued. “He rallies men to his way of thinking. Ireland is many leagues from London. It would be a foolish ruler who makes an enemy of Rory O'Donnell.”

She took less than a minute to decide, and when she did I wasn't sure that I had done the right thing. But it was too late to take back my words, and if it brought Rory closer to freedom, I could not be sorry.