Nell (10 page)

Effortlessly, Nell floated behind her, as if thick roots and tangled branches did not block her path.
So
that's the way of it. Have the Benedictines converted you to their level of holiness? Will you be taking the orders now that there's no hope for a future with your own love?

Reluctantly, Nell laughed and turned around to face her nemesis. “Wouldn't that be the scandal of the century?”

Which? Taking up with Frankie Maguire or becoming a nun?

Jillian gave her a withering look. “Becoming a nun, of course.”

It
would
have
been
much
more
so
in
my
world. It would have meant your head.

“Was he really as dreadful as he seems?”

Nell knew immediately whom she meant.
Henry
was
much
worse. He beheaded two of his own wives, not to mention thousands of others who would not convert.

Jillian shook her head. “I can't imagine it.”

Nell smiled tentatively.
Please
help
me, Jilly. I don't want to be another of his victims.

“There's no danger of that,” Jillian protested. “What has Henry Tudor to do with you?”

Nell's eyes widened, and once again Jillian was struck by the richness of her beauty.

You
really
don't know, do you?

“No.”

I
thought
you
had
become
expert
in
Geraldine
history.

“Not expert, Nell, just better informed than when I last saw you.”

Robert
Montgomery, a Norman lord commissioned by the king, is on his way to bring Gerald back to London. I am to accompany my brother to Henry's court.

“Is that so terrible?”

Nell stamped her foot.
Never
before
has
a
Geraldine
been
so
dim-witted. I wish to go to Aughnanure and wed Donal O'Flaherty. 'Tis his child I carry. Tell me what you know of Gerald's future and mine.

Jillian was very aware of the silence stretching out between them. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves. The stillness of the woods was deafening in its absoluteness. She knew very little, really. What harm could it do? Slowly, she shook her head. “I know nothing at all about you, Nell. I've never seen your name in the history of the Geraldines. But I can tell you that Gerald will live to his majority and win back a portion of the land that was taken from your father. The Geraldines never regained the power they once had.”

A frown marred Nell's forehead.
Do
you
recall
if
the
O'Flahertys were involved in a conflict with England?

“Not during Henry's time. There was something between Grace O'Malley who married an O'Flaherty, but it was nearly fifty years later, during Elizabeth's reign.”

A
woman
ruling
England?
Doubt edged her words.

Jillian laughed. “For a very long time. It was considered to be England's golden age.”

A
Tudor
dynasty. Henry won after all.

“You must have lived to be very old if you know nothing of Elizabeth.” A thought occurred to her. “She must be part of your future. Otherwise you would have known about her.”

Nell's voice was very low.
I
care
nothing
for
Elizabeth.

“I'm sorry, Nell, but I really don't know anything else.”

I
cannot
believe
history
has
no
record
of
me. Perhaps there's something you've missed, something I've neglected to tell you.
She hesitated.
I wonder—

Jillian watched Nell's mind work. She knew desperation when she saw it, and her uneasiness grew. “Will you be all right, Nell?” she asked anxiously. “If I don't start back now, I'll be missed.”

Nell smiled.
You've brought me hope, but 'tis not enough. I need more, Jillian. I need to know if Gerald's survival depends on me. Will you help me?

“What can I do?”

Come
with
me
to
Askeaton
Castle.

Nell gasped. “You're not serious.”

Yes, I am.

“I can't.” Jillian could hardly get the words out. “It isn't possible. What purpose would it serve?”

You
would
help
me
to
see
what
I
cannot. You're a woman now. We can truly be friends. I was there when you needed me. Now I need you.

“You're not being fair, Nell.” Jillian's voice hovered on the edge of panic. Deliberately, she willed herself to remain calm. “My exams are tomorrow, and then I'm going home. I can't just disappear from the face of the earth. Besides, it isn't possible.”

You're wondering whether I'm really here, aren't you? You think I'm a figment of your imagination.

Jillian's face blanched. It was exactly what she was thinking. Of course, if Nell really was an apparition, she would know her thoughts, and nothing Nell said should be a surprise.

Haven't you ever wondered why someone you've never seen before appears so familiar?

Jillian shook her head.

Of
course
you
have. You're just being difficult. There are fissures in time, Jillian, channels by which those from one world may enter another.

“This is absurd.” Jillian climbed up to the path and began walking briskly back toward the Abbey. “I'm going mad,” she muttered to herself. “Six years. I haven't seen you in six years, and you want me to travel through time with you. I won't do it.”

Just
for
a
little
while.

Jillian clapped her hands over her ears. “No.”

I
would
do
it
for
you.

Jillian began to run, but Nell's voice kept up with her.
Be
reasonable, Jillian. No one will even know you are gone.

Her breath came in deep, uneven gasps, drowning out Nell's words. The Abbey was in sight now. Jillian ran gratefully up the stone steps of the small chapel, knelt down in front of the altar, and closed her eyes. Surely hallucinations wouldn't follow her into this house of sanctuary.

Slowly, her heartbeat normalized, and serenity replaced the terror in her heart. She opened her eyes and stared at the image of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, over the altar. Was it a trick of the light, or was there something different about the eyes and the way they glittered? She shifted slightly to move out of the statue's direct gaze. It wasn't far enough. She moved again. A tiny bubble of fear grew in her chest. Was it her imagination, or was the saint's obsidian-dark gaze following her?

Jillian couldn't look away. She stared into the shining blackness of the cut glass. Her lids wouldn't blink, and a burning sensation crept from the outer edges of her eyes to the centers. Deeper and deeper she was drawn into the icy darkness until it engulfed her. A single word hovered on the edge of her memory. Why couldn't she remember it? Her tongue touched the back of her teeth. “Nell.” That was it. “Nnnneeellll.” The sound, foreign in its harshness, erupted from the back of her throat. “Nnnneeellll, heeeelp meeeeee!” she screamed.

Askeaton Castle, 1537

It was the first time Robert Montgomery had crossed the sea to Ireland, but it did not seem unfamiliar. The mist-shrouded bogs rough with marsh grass and sucking mud, the thick forests and haunting glens, the rugged cliffs stained white with bird droppings, reminded him of his native Wales. Even the castles were similar. The Irish were a proud people and eschewed everything English, but, like it or not, Norman invaders had built their stone fortresses in Ireland as they had in Wales.

Robert was the descendant of a Norman marcher lord, but he had no quarrel with the Irish or with any other race for that matter. His own bloodline boasted a strain from Owain of Gwynned, the last Celtic king of Wales who fought English occupation. This mission was not of his choosing. He had no taste for the blood of schoolboys, but Henry had promised him a title and castles. For a second son with no hope of succession, the offer was a godsend.

It was late in the year for fresh snow, but an offseason dusting fell from the sky, blanketing the rocks and trees, freezing the breath of both men and horses as they rode toward an uncertain welcome. Desmond Fitzgerald was Sean Ghall, but reports told of a man who hated all things English. It would be the height of foolishness to ambush an emissary of the king, but the Irish were unpredictable. Robert kept a sharp eye on the rise ahead.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the forest was alive with men on horseback bearing steel-tipped lances and the odd, cone-shaped helmets preferred by the Irish. There appeared to be hundreds of them.

Instinctively, Robert reined in his horse, and his hand moved to where his sword rested in its scabbard. A man, older than the others, bare-headed, with a sly, weathered face and an air of command, rode to the swell of the rise and looked down. He smiled through his beard and urged his mount down the hill until he was less than two meters from where Robert waited.

“Trespassing is illegal in Ireland,” the man said in the cultured accent of an English gentleman.

“We mean no disrespect,” replied Robert.

“You are on Desmond land. What is your purpose here?”

Robert could see the color of his eyes. They were the cold gray of hammered flint His soldiers were outnumbered ten to one. Who would know or care if a party of Englishmen disappeared on a mission far from the Pale? He swallowed. “Henry wishes to have the Geraldine at Whitehall. I am sent to find him and bring him back.”

“Indeed.”

The mocking arrogance reflected in the earl's expression sent warning signals ringing through Montgomery's brain. “We mean no harm, my lord. Henry wants the Geraldine. He is afraid of a rebellion. You would do the same.”

“The boy is my kinsman. What assurances do I have that he will not meet the fate of his father?”

Robert stiffened. It was the same question he had asked of Henry before departing on this misguided mission. “You have the king's word.”

Desmond laughed, a loud, raucous cackle that sent the first squirrels of the season dashing into the tree branches. “The king's word. That's rich. Your king has no honor, Welshman. His word is worthless here in Ireland. We have six dead Geraldines to prove it.”

Robert refused to be drawn into an argument. “Henry has no quarrel with you, Desmond. Give up the boy, and you will be rewarded.”

“No.”

“There was no love lost between you and the Kildare Geraldines.”

Desmond Fitzgerald's jaw hardened. “They were of my blood, Sassanach. Take your men and leave my land, or prepare to meet your God.”

Robert swore under his breath. “Do not cut your own throat, Desmond. Henry's sweep is wide. He will not soon forget your treachery.”

“Tell my cousin that here in Ireland, I am the law.”

Raising his left hand, Robert signaled his men to turn back. It would have been much easier, but his expectations had not included acquiescence from Desmond. He would wait at the lip of the cliff, beyond the borders of Desmond land. The boy could not stay within the gates forever. When the Fitzgeralds least expected it, Robert would strike.

***

Nell stepped out of the damp gloom of the castle and lifted her face to a milky spring sun. It was early morning and very cold, but after weeks of rain, the meager sunlight lifted her spirits. Gerald was completely recovered. She watched as he walked toward her, laughing and talking with the tutor Desmond had appointed.

Thomas Leverous was an Englishman fostered to the Desmond Fitzgeralds years ago. He had become so fond of life in Ireland that he had remained at the castle, acquiring the skills of the clergy. He had thought to enter the holy orders but found himself with a penchant for women and no true vocation. Gerald was the answer to his prayers. He would teach the Fitzgerald heir, remain at Askeaton Castle, and fantasize of a future with Gerald's sister. Thomas was nearly thirty years old, but the sight of Nell Fitzgerald coming toward him, a smile of welcome on her face, brought the blood to his cheeks and a hollow feeling to his stomach. He bowed slightly. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Thomas. How fares my brother?”

“The lad has a fine mind and many questions.”

Gerald broke in. “I've worked hard all morning, Nell. You said I might ride out of the gates if I finished my letters early.”

Nell smiled, completely oblivious to everything but her brother's pleasure. “So I did. Shall we allow him his ride, Thomas?” She lifted light-filled eyes to the tutor's face.

“Aye, my lady,” Leverous stuttered. “I'll see to the saddling.”

Less than twenty minutes passed before Gerald stepped into the groom's locked fingers and was hoisted onto his mare's back. Nell reined in her mount to wait for Thomas and her brother. It was good to feel a horse beneath her again, good to look back at the heavy turrets of Askeaton Castle, at the flags flying and the turf smoke from the chimneys spreading across the sky, comforting signs of Fitzgerald prosperity. Only a small worry nagged at the back of her mind. Although she was healthy as a horse and her appetite never failed her, she had missed her courses twice. Soon she would have to confess to Desmond that she was handfasted to Donal O'Flaherty.

Gerald had cantered ahead. Nell dug her heels into the sides of her mare to catch up with him. “Take care, Gerald,” she warned. “'Tis foolish to ride at such speeds when the ground is unfamiliar to us.”

“Look, Nell.” The boy pointed into the woods where twin fawns shivered near a motionless doe. The doe's dark eyes were fixed on something deep in the shadows. Suddenly, she leaped into the air, and the three of them, doe and fawns, melted into the trees.

So quickly had they become one with the mist that Nell was tempted to rub her eyes. She blinked twice, quickly, and gasped. Horsemen carrying spears, dressed in the light mesh of the English, materialized out of nowhere and surrounded them. A man on a brown gelding with a nosepiece that distorted his face and made the dark brown of his eyes glitter strangely through the slits uttered a harsh command. In unison, the horsemen closed in.

Thomas Leverous spoke first. “This is Desmond land, sir. You are trespassing. The lady and her brother are Fitz—”

“Hush, Thomas,” Nell hissed. “Say no more.”

Robert Montgomery smiled beneath his mail. Eleanor Fitzgerald was no fool. Still, her caution would avail her nothing. Henry had spoken, and there were lands and castles at stake. Robert lifted his reins. Automatically, his horse, trained to respond to the slightest pressure of his knees, moved forward and stopped in front of Nell. Pushing back the nosepiece of his helmet, he stared into angry green-gold eyes.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Wetting his cracked lips, he spoke. “I regret the circumstances that force you to leave Ireland without a proper farewell, my lady.”

Nell met his eyes without flinching. “Who are you?”

“Robert Montgomery, sent to escort you to London.”

“Are we under arrest?”

She was direct, intelligent, and incredibly lovely. Looking into those cool, discerning eyes, he could not dissemble. “Aye.”

“Will we be executed?”

He flinched and mentally damned Henry Tudor to the fires of hell. A girl like this should not be forced to ask such a question. The ferocity of his resolve sent words he had no intention of uttering past his lips. “You will not be harmed.”

“Do you swear?”

Robert nodded. He could not look away from her eyes. “I swear.”

Later that night, far from Desmond land, Robert held out his hands to warm them at the fire. He couldn't sleep, and apparently neither could Eleanor Fitzgerald. Wrapped in her cloak, she sat motionless, staring into the dwindling flames. “Why did you attempt to hide from Henry?” he asked.

She threw him a withering look. “We had nothing to lose.”

“You've done nothing. Henry would not dare harm you.”

She curled her lip, and to Robert, who was close to becoming besotted, even that gesture of contempt was lovely.

“How reassuring you are, Sir Robert, and how naive,” she said. “Henry needs no excuse for murder. Two of his wives face eternity without their heads, the evidence for their crimes nothing more than the pathetic ramblings of torture victims. You will pardon me if I am unconvinced of Henry's compassion.”

“Your father stirred up rebellion in Ireland.”

Nell shook her head. “'Twas my brother Thomas who incited the uprising, but only after my father was unjustly imprisoned and killed in the Tower.” Her voice lowered, and she turned back to the fire. “Gerald had nothing to do with it. He is only a boy.”

“A boy all Ireland would follow.”

Nell's mouth turned up at the corners, and Robert wondered what it would be like to run his finger across her lips, to feel them soften and open beneath his. Cursing his distraction, he caught the tail end of her words.

“You know little of Ireland, Welshman,” she said. “We are a fragmented people with mixed loyalties. Even my cousin Desmond Fitzgerald has English blood. The only true Irish are to the north and the west, the O'Donnells, branches of the O'Neills and the O'Flah—” She stopped, aghast at how loose her tongue had become. There was something unusual about this man, this English soldier, something in the uncompromising set of his mouth and the steady brown gaze that inspired trust.

“You were saying?” he asked politely.

She shrugged, laughing self-consciously. “Never mind. I am not myself tonight. Tell me how you came to be the king's knight.”

Robert grinned and knelt to throw more wood on the fire. The light illuminated his face, and her eyes widened. He was younger than she thought, possibly no more than thirty. His serious expression and the deep grooves in his cheeks made him appear older at first than he really was.

“I am a second son whose older brother has four healthy boys,” he said ruefully. “With no hope of inheriting and no vocation for the church, I must make my way in the world.”

“You do not seem displeased with your fortune.”

“The life suits me.” He looked at Nell, her face touched with firelight, and the breath caught in his throat. He swallowed. “In truth, I am fond of children. I would have what my brother has.”

“And that is?”

“A home and family enough to fill it.”

The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable. She looked away, pulling her cloak tightly around her.

“And what of you, Eleanor?” It was the first time that he had used her name. “How would you arrange your life?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she was grateful for the concealing darkness. “My father arranged my life. I am betrothed to Donal O'Flaherty of Aughnanure, and I am satisfied with his decision.”

Robert stood and looked down upon the silvery head of the girl he had searched the length of Ireland to find. “May you achieve everything that you desire, lass,” he said gruffly. “I bid you good night.”

“Good night, Robert,” she said, using his Christian name.

The Royal Palace, London

“Your grace.” The boy bowed his head and kept his eyes on the floor, but Henry ignored him. It was the girl who held his attention. The Fitzgeralds were known to be a well-favored family, but this young woman was like no one he had ever seen before. She was dressed in gold brocade with a deep, squared-off neckline that revealed delicate bones and full, round breasts. Silvery hair, brushed smooth and held away from her forehead by a simple headpiece, framed a face that cried out for an artist's canvas. When she lifted her hazel eyes to meet his gaze, Henry, a man known for surrounding himself with beautiful women, drew a deep restorative breath. Suddenly, his wife, who only a short year ago inspired him to sonnets praising her beauty, seemed insipid and rather common.

“Welcome to Whitehall, dear cousins,” he said unsteadily. “Finding you has put me to great inconvenience and expense. However, you are here now, and I bear you no ill will. This is your home.” He stood and motioned to his steward. “Thomas, take the boy and find him a tutor. His sister and I shall walk in the conservatory.” He held out his arm. “Lady Eleanor.”

Nell rose and rested her hand on the king's outstretched arm. She hoped that the conservatory was close by. Henry Tudor was enormous, and his ulcerated leg was twice the size of his normal one. It would not do for him to take a fall or have a seizure while in her presence.

He kept his eyes on her profile. “Do you fear me, cousin?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Because of your father?”

Nell sucked in her bottom lip between her teeth. What game did he play? She knew his reputation. What could she say that would keep her away from the executioner's block? Frantically, she discarded one response after another. It was past time for answering. “Because of my father,” she answered defiantly, “and my uncles and my brother.”

“They were traitors, Eleanor,” he said gently. “Look at me, and tell me that your father did not wish to rule all of Ireland in my place.”