The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (17 page)

“Your wish is my command, my lord.” He stood and put his arm around Essex’s shoulder. “So come away. We have work to do.” EVEN IF ELIZABETH did not in the end grant him the Farm of Sweet Wines, thought Essex as he jumped down to the deck of the Irish galley, the expression on her face at the offer of Keyston had been payment enough. He ’d made a pretty speech to go with it, very humble, saying he would willingly give her all the land that he owned with hopes that this “one poor manor” might answer the sum that he owed her.

Her face had softened and the steely glint that had never left her eyes since Leicester’s death turned to a playful sparkle. Her fingers covered her mouth, its rusty smile she could not entirely hide.

“My lord Essex,” she ’d replied with the sweet lilt of a girl being courted, “you know very well the value of that property far exceeds the debt you owe me.”

“No, Your Majesty,” Essex had replied, “nothing in the world I could gift you could ever repay the deep account accrued by your faithful love of myself.” He remembered that when he ’d spoken these words—

despite the deviousness with which they’d been planned—he ’d found himself strangely moved by the utter truth of them. He owed the queen his very life, all hope of his fortunes and future. And he did love her, more deeply than any woman alive. Now everything, for better or worse, had been laid in the Fates’ hands, but he found himself dizzy with unaccountable joy.

Grace O’Malley was waiting on deck, fully disguised, with a stout, bushy-bearded Irishman. “Meet my cousin Murrough ne Doe O’Flaherty.” She spoke in Latin. “He ’s the captain of this ship and my host for this voyage.”

Essex was, for the briefest moment, taken aback. Here was Grace O’Malley being ferried to England by the hated usurper of her husband’s chieftaincy. He quickly regained his wits, bowing graciously to the man, receiving a curt nod back, and suddenly Essex was trembling with anticipation. He was hungry for more of this woman’s stirring account. How, he wondered, had she gone from widow twice over and captain of a modest local fleet to “Mother of All the Rebellions in Ireland”? And how had she come to be a guest aboard her old enemy’s ship? Had she lost her fleet? And who was this son of hers in Bingham’s custody? Certainly not Owen, nor Murrough O’Flaherty. Had she born a son to Eric?

The blood in his veins was tingling. He ’d not, after all, have need of Will Meek’s potion for staying awake this night. All he would need for that, thought Essex, were Grace O’Malley’s words.

I  SUPPOSE there ’s no way to tell the rest of my story without mention of the three Irish earls.”

“By that,” said Elizabeth, settling back into her chair, “I take you to mean Ormond, Desmond, and Tyrone.”

“You take me correctly. Your cousin Tom of Ormond I feel the least for, neither love nor hatred. He was brought up a Protestant, and was English in all but his place of birth. You have between you the ties of blood, which are very strong, so it doesn’t surprise me that Tom was loyal to you from the start. I imagine he ’ll be so till the day he dies. Now Tyrone—Hugh O’Neill—I’ve known since he was a child.”

“As have I,” Elizabeth said. “He was raised in the London home of Henry and Mary Sidney.”

“Aye, Henry Sidney. He was the best of your Irish governors.”

“And his wife was my dear friend—Robin Dudley’s sister.”

“Is that so? I’d not made that connection.” Elizabeth, suddenly wistful, gazed into the fire. “Their boy Philip was my godson.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. He died too young, but war has a way of claimin’ the young.”

“It was your loss as well, was it not?”

“Indeed. Philip Sidney wrote me the loveliest letters for several years before his death. Sometimes verse . . . I’ve always been fond of younger men. But you understand that, don’t you, Bess?” The two women cackled like a pair of conspirators.

“I heard the tale of Essex’s grand gesture in the Netherlands war,” said Grace, “takin’ up Philip Sidney’s sword as his own after the poor man’s death.”

“He took up his widow as well,” Elizabeth added.

“He married her, did he?”

The queen nodded.

“Does he love her?”

“I think not. And if I’m not mistaken, he never did.”

“Men are strange creatures. Even the best of ’em. Well, like I was sayin’, your Earl of Tyrone—who’ll always be “The O’Neill” to me—

has a real affinity for the English. Perhaps ’twas his upbringing in the Sidney household that did it. But the O’Neills and the O’Malleys go way back. Owen and them were trading partners. And of course he ferried the Scots Gallowglass to North Ireland for all The O’Neill’s local battles.”

“And
you
brought them, more recently, for their rebellions against the English,” Elizabeth added, managing to keep her tone even and mild.

“The hiring of Scots mercenaries was made a capital offense before I came to the throne.”

“Well, pardon me for sayin’ so, but the Gallowglass are too brilliant as fighters and far too entrenched to be stopped by a mere English law.

And let’s be honest, Bess.
You
hired the Gallowglass whenever England needed their help. As for Hugh O’Neill,” said Grace, “he ’s a stout-hearted Irishman, very brave, and I love him dearly.”

“But is he England’s friend . . . or foe?”

“Like most of his countrymen, he takes both sides of the fight as they suit him. But Hugh O’Neill plays his hand very close to the chest, so I haven’t a clue as to your answer. And you know very well that if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anyhow.”

Elizabeth grimaced at the mild chastisement.

“It’s Gerald Fitzgerald, your Earl of Desmond, I wish had never been born.” Grace ’s expression grew severe. “He was a blight on the Irish landscape, a traitor to humankind. Gerald was a man lacking any principle a’tall. Duplicitous in the extreme, with the moral fiber of a groat.”

Elizabeth fixed Grace with her eyes. “Let us be honest, Grace. You most despised Desmond on personal grounds. He had you imprisoned.

Very nearly hanged.”

“All right. I hated him for that as well. But the truth is, no one of us in Ireland ever rained down so much death and destruction on our own countrymen and women as Desmond did in the three short years of his rebellion.”

Grace grew silent, for she was soaring—a winged creature—back through the shadow of years, searching for the precise moment in time on which to alight and begin the telling of her story again. Suddenly it was found, but judging by the wretchedness of her expression, there was no joy in the discovery.

OWEN O’MALLEY lived to a ripe old age, but as he was of hardy stock, his body survived intact long after his mind had gone. He was never, even at the end, a querulous old fart like so many who live beyond their useful years. ’Twas just his memory that faded, like a piece of colored silk, crumpled and left in the sun too long. At first it was unendurable to watch, but later I could see that he was in no pain himself. I told him nothing of the events in Connaught—the same ones that he ’d once told me would come to pass. What good would it have done? He was livin’ in the past, a much better place, and one I sometimes wished I could go to as well. But that was impossible of course.

There was only the present and future, and those looked very strange indeed.

I was a widow again, this time with no thirds to inherit. My father was near death and my children were grown and fending for themselves and their families. True, I owned the biggest fleet in western Ireland, counted three thousand loyal followers and a large herd, which made me a rich woman. But Ireland was like a great war map in those days, with clans and English gathered in their places. Pawns and soldiers, fleets and Gallowglass. Queens and lords and Palesmen just waitin’ to march and maraud across the land. All with ambition. All with blood in their eyes.

I was alone, a woman with no alliances, responsible for all the families that followed me. I had to do something, so I looked around for a husband.

I didn’t have to look far. My father’s words had never left me—“Stay close to the O’Flahertys and the Burkes,” he ’d said. “They’ll never fight you.” I was loath to go back to the O’Flahertys, and in truth the Burkes were stronger. The MacWilliam, Shane Oliverus Burke, had himself a wife already, so I looked to the obvious, the
tanaist
of that title. ’Twas Richard Burke, a true shit of a man with very little to recommend him.

He was coarse, uneducated, and a foul-tempered drunk. His grown children—three sons and a daughter—were bastards and had little to do with him. Worse, his mother was my old sister-in-law, Finula O’Flaherty Burke, who was slaverin’ at the thought of her son finally becoming The MacWilliam. And of course she hated me with a passion.

But he was strong, by virtue of a great horde of men who followed and fought for him. And wealthy, with a vast herd of cattle, and several rich mines from which he earned the moniker “Iron Richard.” The name made him sound much mightier than he was, for in truth his mind was mediocre and his will quite malleable. Perhaps that’s why I chose to marry him. I knew Richard Burke would never rule me.

To everyone else it appeared a fine match. Together our wealth was enormous. My fleet, our herds, our lands, our castles, our followers. We were a force to be reckoned with, though in the privacy of his keep at Rockfleet, we were somewhat less formidable. He found me attractive, even at my age of thirty-six, and was not averse to havin’ his way with me. Truly I hated it, but nights in the connubial bed were my duty as a wife, so I bore his pawing hands and stinking breath, and sought the bathhouse almost every day.

I was at home at Rockfleet Keep. ’Twas on an inlet of the northeast coast of Clew Bay, and on a clear day I could even see Clare Island. My fleet had a good harbor there, and the castle was a mighty stronghold, four stories high. At the top, where we lived, there was a beautiful large window facing west, and from there I could see every ship comin’ into the inlet, and from the ramparts every ship within fifty miles.

The truth was, I saw very little of Richard for, like Donal, he was most often out in his territories fightin’ some battle or another, less with the neighboring clans and more with the English. Few of my O’Flaherty sailors and their families had yet uprooted themselves to live in the Burkes’ territories, near the fleet. I traveled very little and felt most abandoned. My father and Barbara had come to live in a cottage nearby, but the move nearly killed him, and he grew weaker by the day. Even the old memories had flown from his mind, dark and echoing like a ship’s empty hold.

That first year at Rockfleet I grew very sad and morbid. All I could do was count my losses. Eric. My home on Clare Island. The freedom of my voyaging. I sulked and brooded and stayed to myself—’twas not like me a’tall, and I knew that my father’d be ashamed if he saw how self-pitying I’d become. But even that thought brought me back to Owen’s condition, which was so unkind an ending for so brilliant a life.

One day in July Barbara came running in to say I should come now if I wished to see my father before he passed. Inside his house he was lyin’

there—that once huge and powerful body now thin and wasted by time.

He was handsome still, with his long thick hair spread out round his head like a silver halo. His eyes were open and I do not know if he saw me, but I thought not. His hand was warm when I took it up to hold, and though

’twas a feeble grip, I like to believe he held mine back.

Day turned to night. Candles were lit and Barbara plied me with warm wine. He did not go gently, my father, standin’ on the battle-ground of life and death. I began to pray, though I don’t remember to whom I prayed—to Jesus, the old gods and goddesses, to my mother, to Eric, to anyone a’tall who would take poor Owen out of his misery.

And then he was still, and it shocked me how quick the life and the color drained from his face. And I couldn’t believe he was gone. I couldn’t believe my father was dead. I knew not what to do. I just sat quiet and still like stone while Barbara, calm and knowing, took up a brush and brushed his hair.

Word went out all over Connaught and beyond, and soon people were streamin’ in to pay their respects. I was wrenched from my sorry state to bring the gathering together and make my father a funeral worthy of him.

It had to be on the sea, of course. I’d realized that, once I’d come to my senses. So every ship in the fleet was needin’ a crew. Those I pulled together from the seamen who’d come from O’Malley and O’Flaherty lands. I was glad to see them, and they me. There was much embracing and laughter and remembrance of Owen. And there were tears shed as well, theirs and mine. Finally, thank Jesus, mine.

The great flotilla—the
Dorcas
at its head—took sail to the west-southwest. ’Twas a fair wind that took us out over the shinin’ waves on a gorgeous day my father would have loved. As we rounded Clare Island, I called the order to drop anchor. All was silent ’cept the slappin’ of the waves on the hull and the screamin’ of the gulls above us. My husband Richard had even taken time from his skirmishes, bringing with him the pipes that were played on the field of battle, and his best bagpipe player as well. He might have been a ratbag, Richard, but he did respect my father, and the tune his piper played as Owen splashed down to his final rest brought tears to every eye.

Owen’s death and the great gathering at his funeral was the medicine I needed to heal my wounded heart. I mourned my losses and put them behind me, realizing I was still alive, still the mistress of a great fleet of ships. The sea was callin’ me again and my men were ready to follow wherever I’d lead. Richard, I decided, could be left behind to fight our battles on land.

The English were coming to Connaught, that was for sure. Walter, the first Earl of Essex, had already slaughtered hundreds of Irish men, women, and children on Rathlin Island—our very own St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre—and the Mayo Burkes were arming themselves, ready to explode in rebellion.

So I escaped with six of my best ships and crews and began a year-long voyage to fish and trade and pirate. I had no idea of the future and no regrets for the past. Once on the water with my fleet and crews, I regained my good humor and all the appreciation I’d had for the sea as a young girl. I would eagerly scan the white-flecked waves for a glimpse of a breaching whale, find myself lulled by the watch pilot singing his hum-drum chant to the steersman, feel unaccountable joy in the lighting of the night lantern atop the high poop.