Nell (5 page)

She knelt down and looked straight into her daughter's eyes. “You must promise me that you'll be kind to everyone at your party, Jilly, not just Frankie. Please, promise me that.”

“Of course, Mum.”

“And what of Nell? Shall we invite her as well?”

“Nell?” For a moment, Jilly's eyes went blank. She recovered quickly. “I don't think so, Mum. Nell doesn't visit me so much anymore. I have Frankie now.”

With a low sound that was almost a moan, Margaret Fitzgerald left the room.

***

He didn't come to the party, after all, begging off with the excuse that he would be in Newry for the day. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, Peter Maguire had raised his boy correctly. She must remember to put a bit of something extra into the kennel keeper's Christmas envelope.

Nothing would have induced Frankie to come to a party hosted by Margaret Fitzgerald. But neither had he wanted to disappoint Jilly. He promised he would bring her present later that evening, after her guests had gone.

Lit up with anticipation, Jilly balanced a plate with two pieces of cake in one hand and a Thermos of lemonade in the other and headed toward the kennel.

He came shortly after she did, holding out a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Happy birthday, Jilly,” he said softly.

Eagerly, she reached for the box and tore off the wrapper. Her eyes widened with pleasure. “It's lovely, Frankie. Whatever is it?”

“I'll show you.” He took the glass dome, turned it upside down, and righted it again. Instantly, the water was alive with miniature dolphins swimming around a silvery castle. “It's supposed t' be the lost continent of Atlantis.”

“Oh.” She breathed reverently. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You shouldn't have, Frankie. It must have been very dear.”

He shrugged. “It's not every day that Jillian Fitzgerald has a birthday.”

“Would you like some cake and lemonade?”

Frankie grinned and sat down at the small table. “Thank you, lass. I'd like that very much.”

The cake was rich, and Jilly, who had her pudding every day, soon put her plate aside. She watched with interest as Frankie relished his last crumb. “What were you doing in Newry?” she asked.

Frankie washed down the last of his cake with a swig of lemonade. “Findin' y'r birthday present.”

“What else?”

Frankie pushed aside the plate and considered his answer. How much could an eleven-year-old understand? “There was trouble in Belfast. Kilvara is too small t' hear all the news. I wanted t' know what happened.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The RUC fired into a group of protesters. Two men died.”

“What were they protesting?”

He looked at her steadily. “There are some who want the North of Ireland to be united with the Republic. Others don't. Do y' know what the marchin' season is, Jilly?”

“Of course. It's when the Orangemen march through the streets to celebrate William of Orange's victory over King James.”

“Not everyone believes we should be celebratin' such an event, and when the Orangemen march through those neighborhoods, fightin' breaks out and the RUC are called in.”

“Who died?”

A thin white line appeared around Frankie's lips. “Two nationalists. The RUC don't kill loyalists. They only kill Catholics.”

Deep in thought, Jilly leaned her chin on her hand. “Why?” she asked at last.

“Because the RUC are Protestant Orangemen themselves.”

“Why don't the Catholics have their own RUC?”

Frankie laughed harshly. “They do, Jilly. They're called the Irish Republican Army. But they're an illegal force. When they're caught, they go to prison.”

“It doesn't sound very fair to me,” Jilly decided.

“Nor to me.”

The expression on his face frightened her. “Are you angry, Frankie?”

“Not at you, lass.”

“Did you know the men who died?”

“No.”

Wisely, she remained silent and let him talk.

“They were only boys, Jilly, not much older than I am. Now they're dead and all because they wanted the same things everyone does.”

“You said they wanted us to be united with Ireland. Everyone doesn't want that.”

His eyes were dark with anger. “More do than y' think, but that's not what I meant. Did y' know that it's nearly impossible for a Catholic to find work in the city just because he's a Catholic? Our votes don't count as much as Protestant votes, and housing is almost impossible to find in Catholic neighborhoods because no one wants t' build there. Do y' know why no one will build there, Jilly?”

She shook her head.

“Because every twelfth of July, bands of loyalists drink too much and burn down Catholic neighborhoods. It's enough to make a man join the IRA.”

Clammy fear crawled up Jilly's spine. “But you won't, will you, Frankie? You won't join the IRA.”

Her words brought him to his senses, and he smiled sheepishly. “What am I thinkin'? 'Tis a poor guest I am to be bringin' up the subject on y'r birthday.”

Jilly sighed with relief. She had heard of the IRA. Her father cursed them regularly every time he had to wait at road blocks for British soldiers to search the cars ahead of him. The Fitzgerald Volvo was inevitably waved through, but the indignity of having one's neighbors harassed was annoying.

Frankie stood. “I should be leavin' now, Jilly. Thank you for the cake.”

“Thank you for my present. It's the nicest one of all.” He moved toward the door. “I'll see y' tomorrow.”

“Frankie.” She caught up with him and touched his arm.

He turned around and smiled. Jilly stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

Frankie reached out to tug on a sausage-shaped curl. “It was my pleasure, lass.”

Whitehall Palace, London, 1537

Henry Tudor rubbed his aching leg. The pain was sharp, piercing. Spirits brought relief, but it was only temporary, and he hated the groggy feeling that dulled his senses and brought the pounding to his head. Everything was more difficult since Wolsey had acquired principles. For years, the cardinal had padded his coffers with gold from the royal treasury, mounted mistresses, bestowed land and favors on his bastards, only to refuse, stubbornly, to renounce his Catholicism. His reward was the executioner's blade. The good cardinal fought until the end, but he was no match for a Tudor.

Light from the casement window illuminated the room and the sinister figure of Henry's chief secretary. Thomas Cromwell pored over the rolls of parchment on the massive desk. Despite the pain in his leg, Henry managed a smirk. Cromwell was invaluable to him. Hated by gentry and common folk alike, with his sly rat's face, he was the current scapegoat for Henry's often ill-received strategies. The burning monasteries, the boarded-up churches, and the Geraldine executions could be laid directly at the feet of the priest-hater, Thomas Cromwell.

Henry felt a slight twinge of remorse when he remembered the earl of Kildare's response to the charge against him. “I am your cousin, Henry. We are Celts. We share the same blood. Never will you find a house more loyal than the House of Kildare.” But the blood they shared was Plantagenet blood. Geraldine and Plantagenet, a dangerous combination when the Tudor succession was still not established.

Again, he rubbed his leg. The child that Jane Seymour carried in her belly would be his last. Henry could feel the ardor of his youth growing dimmer, replaced by pain and an ulcerated wound that refused to heal. It was a miracle that he had gotten Jane with child. She was young and fertile but very small. Daily he prayed that the child would be born alive. This time, it must be a boy. If not—

Henry refused to consider such a possibility. England could not be ruled by a woman. Tudor enemies surrounded her. Catholic Spain to the south. Catholic France to the east. Catholic Ireland and Scotland to the north. Without a king on her throne, England would succumb to the papist scourge. He clenched his fists and shouted even though his secretary was only feet away. “Cromwell, bring me the boy. Bring the last of the Geraldines. My heir will not be safe until every Fitzgerald is dead.”

Thomas Cromwell crossed the room and knelt at the king's feet. Not by the slightest flicker of an expression did he reveal that such an order had been sent out the day before and was at this moment being executed. “It shall be done, Your Grace. Robert Montgomery was ever your faithful servant. Shall I give him your message?”

Robert Montgomery. Henry concentrated. Robert Montgomery. Robert— Then it came to him. The Welshman. “Yes. Send Robert to Ireland. He will find the boy.”

Cromwell backed away toward the door. “It is already done, Your Grace.”

Donore Castle

Nell wrung out the linen cloth and wiped her brother's feverish brow. His face was marked by the oozing boils of the dreaded pox, and his fever burned dangerously high. Fearing for their lives, the physician had left Donore Castle the day before with the
gallawglass
and the last of the servants. He had warned Nell that the fever would rise before it fell. The boy's tenuous hold on life would grow slim. Nell brushed away tears as she bathed the face of the only member of her family still living. There was Margaret, of course. But since her marriage to the earl of Ormond, Margaret had ceased to be a Fitzgerald.

“Please, Gerald,” Nell pleaded. “Don't die.” Her eyes blurred, and she lowered her head into her hands. It was a miracle that after so many sleepless nights, she wasn't ill herself. After her mother's death, Nell's mind had gone numb as if it recognized that she could bear no more and still keep her fragile hold on sanity. It was enough that she grub for food, that she search the grounds for kindling, that she bathe the emaciated body of her brother, that she wake and sleep and wake again. There was only today, only this moment and the next and the next after that. She dare not think of tomorrow. For with thoughts of tomorrow would come other thoughts, dangerous thoughts.

For weeks, she had struggled to keep her focus. But now, on the edge of sleep, her mind wandered. What would happen to them now, to the last of the mighty Fitzgeralds of Kildare, whose roots were embedded in the ashes of Troy, in Latium and Etruria, in the glory of ancient Florence, in Normandy with the Conqueror? From Wales, they had invaded Ireland, ruling within and beyond the Pale for four centuries, only to be snuffed out by a man, an English king, a cousin who feared his own mortality and searched beyond the borders of the Pale for an eleven-year-old boy and his sister.

Nell had exhausted her options long ago. Her first inclination had been to seek refuge with the O'Flahertys at Aughnanure. The king would not risk his gold or his army to find her in the wilds of Galway. But there was Donal to consider. For the O'Flahertys, who had no stake in the future of the House of Kildare, it would mean war with England. She would not ask Donal to risk his birthright for her brother. Nor could she tell him where she was. The Fitzgerald standard had fallen. If her letter were to fall into the wrong hands, Henry would find it. She shivered. Her only hope lay with her cousin, the earl of Desmond, head of the Munster Geraldines.

Unlike her own, this branch of Geraldines harbored a deep mistrust of the English. They had cut themselves off from England completely, becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves, taking on their customs, their clothing, their language, refusing to attend court or the council in Dublin. Every native chief owed them fealty. For that reason, she must take Gerald to Desmond at Askeaton Castle.

She must have slept. When she opened her eyes, the light from the narrow recessed window had completely disappeared, and the chamber was shrouded in darkness. Shivering, she left the room and returned with a torch, touching it to the mound of stacked kindling in the hearth. She pulled her cape around her shoulders and waited for the chill to leave her bones. Gerald stirred. Outside, there was a sound on the cobbles. Nell froze. Horses with riders waited at the gates.

Fear spurred her forward. Securing the door against the chill, she left Gerald asleep in the warmth of the heated room and moved swiftly down the spiral stairs into the courtyard and the ground level of the barbican. Keeping out of sight, she peeked through the portcullis, and her eyes widened. There were twenty men, all with the stirrupless saddles, long mantles, and fringed collars of the native Irish.

With a fluid, effortless motion, a single rider separated himself from his horse and walked toward the portcullis gate. Nell's throat closed with relief. She knew of only one man who walked with that light, athletic gait. Even now, she could see the fall of his hair, black as a crow's wing beneath the moonlight. Donal. Thanks be to God! Her prayers had been answered. It was Donal O'Flaherty.

She whispered his name into the hushed darkness. “Donal.”

He stopped and turned toward the sound of her voice. “Nell?” he said incredulously. “Nell, is that you?”

“I'm here, Donal, in the barbican.”

He moved toward the loop. “Let me in.”

“I cannot. 'Tis the pox.”

He stretched his arm through the aperture. “Are you affected?”

“Not I. 'Tis Gerald.” She stepped backward. “Come no closer, Donal. You dare not risk it.”

“By the sword of Conor, Nell. I've searched the length of Ireland for you. Do you think I would leave you? Open the gates. You're coming with me to Aughnanure.”

He still wanted her. It was more than she'd hoped for. But it couldn't be. Not yet. Summoning the last of her reserves, she refused him. “You've not had the fever. Come back in a se'enight. If Gerald lives, we shall accept your escort to the earl of Desmond at Askeaton Castle. If he dies—” Her voice broke. “If he dies, I'll come with you to Aughnanure.”

Donal understood her worry, but he did not share it. He was pure Irish from a lineage that was already old three thousand years ago when his ancestors built the great wrath of
Emain
Macha
near Armagh. He carried the title of chieftain, the most ancient, most prestigious title in all of Ireland. Donal O'Flaherty feared no one, most especially not this Welsh upstart on the English throne. As far as the O'Flahertys were concerned, there was only one law in all of Ireland, and that was Brehon law. “Come closer, Nell,” he said softly.

She hesitated.

“I only want to see your face. I won't touch you.”

Nell moved toward him and lifted her chin, swallowing bravely. She was dreadfully thin, and weeks had gone by since she'd bathed properly and washed her hair. It was not an auspicious way to meet one's future husband after nearly a year.

Donal stared down into the gaunt beauty of Nell's tear-smudged face, and his heart broke. Forgetting his promise, he reached through the aperture and cupped her chin. “Don't cry,
a
stor
,” he murmured softly. “I won't leave you. We shall camp in the glen, and at the end of the week, you will leave this place and never come back.”

His tenderness weakened her. She leaned against him briefly, caught up his hand and pressed her mouth to his palm. His skin tasted of salt and leather. Quickly, she thrust his arm away, afraid that the price for so much pleasure would be more than she could pay. “
Dia
duit
, Donal,” she said softly.

“
Dia
is
Muire
duit
, Nell.”

Unable to watch him ride away, she walked quickly across the courtyard and up the stone stairs into the chamber she shared with Gerald.

The Tower of London

Silken Thomas sat on the wooden bench and stared at the two initials he'd carved in the stone wall. The lettering was crude, almost infantile, but it couldn't be helped. His chisel had been a spoon. Not that it mattered. No one would pass judgment. No one cared. All who mattered to him in the world were here with him, sentenced to die before him so that he might watch what he had caused. Damn Leonard Gray. He'd assured the Geraldines they would be released after Henry had secured promises of fealty. Now, Silken Thomas wondered if it had ever been true or if Gray had lied from the beginning.

Alone in his tower room, Thomas had time for reflection. It was his own rash temper that had brought down his house, beginning with the scene in St. Mary's Abbey before the King's Council. Throwing down his sword and pledging himself enemy to the king had been the act of a hot-tempered child. There was no room for child's play in the world of English politics. For his immaturity, he would pay with his life, and for their loyalty to him, his uncles would die with him, hanged, then drawn and quartered at Tyburn.

He lowered his head into his hands and was surprised to feel the wet of tears against his face. Nell and his mother would blame him. He would have liked to see his mother again.

Voices on the stairs disturbed his reverie. It was time. They had come for him, before he was ready. He almost smiled at the absurdity of his own mind. Was a man ever ready to die?

In the courtyard, his eyes burned from the sun's glare, and he lifted his hand to shade himself. His uncles stood in a line between two rows of guards. Averting his eyes, Silken Thomas embraced them quickly. His guilt was nearly a physical thing.

They were forced to lie spread-eagled and bound tightly on top of the horse-pulled hurdles. The portcullis was raised. Across the evil-smelling waters of the moat into the city of London, by way of Tower Street and into the Shambles, they came.

Crowds gathered to watch. The spectacle was not an unusual one. Since King Henry's break with the Church, the citizens of London and the surrounding countryside had witnessed many a noble's execution, although one family had never before been so unfairly represented.

The hurdles rolled through Newgate and Snow Hill. At Tyburn, the crowd had swelled to more than a hundred. It was February. A cold wind had risen from the Thames. Five ropes swung against a pewter-colored sky, and a butcher's block stood atop a high platform.

Silken Thomas looked at the ropes, and a curious trembling took hold of his body. Garrett, the uncle closest to his own age, laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Dear Jesus, forgive me,” Thomas whispered.

Garrett nodded and looked toward the ropes. “It will be over soon.”

John was the first to be hanged. The executioner climbed the stairs of the platform and lifted two knives and a cleaver above his head. A collective murmur rose from the spectators, as if it came from one throat. John was dragged up the stairs. The rope was placed around his neck. Slowly, he was hoisted until his feet left the ground. Silken Thomas saw his uncle's body jerk and closed his eyes.

He missed the lowering of John's nearly unconscious body to the block, missed the first cut of the knife. He did not miss John's inhuman shriek of pain, the crowd's roar, the smack of limbs as they were tossed into the wooden bin. He did not miss the scent of fresh blood.

Five times the procedure was repeated. Five times Geraldine limbs were cut off, heads severed. When it was his turn, Silken Thomas had entered that state of mind where pain did not go. He welcomed the executioner's blade, welcomed his passing into a place where there was no sight, no sound, no smell.

While his entrails still lay on the wet boards of the block, the executioner held up the golden head of Thomas Fitzgerald. Silently, the crowd looked on. A woman bowed her head and wept.

***

To the north, in the cold dampness of Donore Castle, Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare, awoke without the fever. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around the dim chamber. “I'm hungry, Nell,” he said. “Where are we?”