The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (20 page)

’Twas a terrible time. Clans rebelled. Rebels were pardoned. And those pardoned submitted to the Crown, only to rebel once again.

I watched and I waited, keepin’ informed by a string of messengers and spies. Like I said, Shane Oliverus’s submission had weakened Richard’s chances for election to the MacWilliamship in the old way.

And of course the old way was dying a death all around us. But I’d not suffered this miserable marriage for nothing. Richard
would
become The MacWilliam, come hell or high water. ’Twas time to act, swift and decisive. And it was up to me, for my husband knew nothing of politics, only of battle.

I was out with my troops in the field when I learned Lord Deputy Sidney was coming to Galway to hear submissions. I quick sent my runner to Richard, who was then battling with some of Desmond ’s men, and told him to meet me at Rockfleet, at once. That his future was at stake.

He returned, grumbling. What kind of man was he that came to the call of a woman? But once he saw the look in my eye—hard and sharp as his broadsword blade—he quieted.

“We ’re goin’ to Galway City. Today,” I said.

“And why are we goin’ there?”

“To see Henry Sidney and submit.”

“Submit! Unrequested?”

“Submit. Surrender. Kiss arse,” I said. “Call it what you like.”

“You said you’d never surrender.”

“I won’t, but
you
will. Now go to the bathhouse and have a wash. You smell like a goat.”

Of course I explained it to him later. He was not a complete idiot. He knew, like I did, that good relations with the Crown of England would only help our cause, and refusal to submit would no doubt harm us.

’Twas better, I told him, to submit now of his own accord, from a place of strength, than later from a place of weakness. The English had proved they held the power to rescind and grant the most ancient of titles, as they had with The O’Flaherty, takin’ it from Donal Crone and givin’ it to Murrough ne Doe. And I thought if Henry Sidney found “Iron” Richard Burke a worthy and cooperative chieftain, perhaps he would help in securing the MacWilliamship for him once his time came. Sure it rankled—to my very bones. But I saw the future for what it was, and I thought that the gamble—risky as it was—would pay off handsomely in the end.

So we went to Galway City, me in my blue velvet dress, lookin’ like a fine English lady, and Richard, clean and fragrant for the first time in years. ’Twas a great gathering indeed, a proper ball with music and dancing and a feast, with many courses brought on platters by servants.

Dozens of chieftains had come, some with their wives all done up in the Irish style, their finest saffron gowns, and golden ear bobs and bracelets, twisted bands in their hair. Mine was the only English gown, and I must admit I flaunted myself quite proudly, like a Spanish peacock.

I was bold making the submission for Richard in Latin, quite eloquent like, if I do say so myself. I swore his loyalty, and offered the services of my fleet. Three galleys and two hundred fighting men—though in truth we had many more. But what sense was there in tipping my hand?

Richard was silent the whole time, for he ’d never learnt Latin, and besides was tongue-tied in the presence of his enemy. I surprised myself by the ease with which I moved amongst them. ’Twas a game to be played, and in truth it excited me.

The happy surprise of the day was Deputy Sidney’s son, Sir Philip, who’d accompanied his father to Ireland and Galway. I remember the first sight of him, so slender and pale. He looked like the poet he was, with a face that spoke of emotions, fathomless emotions, and I loved him at once, a strange affection somewhere between that of a woman for a man and a mother for her son.

I suppose I had never encountered a mind such as Philip Sidney’s. We argued Homer and Plato and Livy, and I remember sitting there, my rough-skinned hands laid against the soft blue velvet of my lap, thinking that here I was, Grace O’Malley, carryin’ on a fine conversation with one of England’s greatest men, and how had I come to this? He spoke with love of his queen—his godmother, Elizabeth—and what a brilliant woman you were. He hated with a passion the Duke of Alençon, to whom you were then engaged, and hoped you would send aid to the Netherlands—a substantial army—to fight against Philip of Spain. ’Twas a war in which he hoped to serve, he told me, and I said I could never imagine so tender a heart as his in battle. He laughed at that, saying a poet and a soldier were not so very different, for they both plumbed the depths of love and hate, life and death, and spoke in the language of the heart.

We even talked of religion, and the dreadful curse of fighting in God’s name. The thought of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, which he had witnessed, brought tears to both our eyes, and he took my hand then, as if holdin’ it would comfort us equally. Jesus, he was a dear man.

Lord Deputy Sidney, perhaps on Philip’s urging, paid me more than my due of attention at that gathering, and requested that the next day I take them and a delegation of English on my ship for a trip round Galway Bay. Of course I obliged them, but there I found myself, on a gray, blustery morning, hosting my enemies on a tour of the harbor’s defenses. What was the world coming to?

Sir Henry had me pointing out the seawall with its mounted cannon, the castle at the mouth of the bay, and the largest ships anchored there, and what was their tonnage? And who did they belong to? He seemed to be enjoyin’ it so much that he had me sail them up the coast and down as well. We were out for the better part of the day, and to my delight I had a chance to speak at length with Philip once again. We tied up at the Galway dock and the English party were taking their leave, very cheerful and good-natured. I found Sir Henry with his son, lingering on the poop, and went up to them with a smile.

“You enjoyed the day?” said I.

“Very much indeed,” the Lord Deputy replied. “You are a brilliant captain, Mistress O’Malley, and a fine hostess.”

“Thank you for the kind words, Sir Henry, but I wouldn’t exactly call me a hostess.”

“A host then?” he said, laughing at his own jest.

“No,” said I. “Not that either, for at least in Ireland a host does not ask for payment from his guests.”

“Payment?” Lord Sidney was perplexed and then his face grew red.

Philip stifled a chuckle at my impertinence. “Payment. Of course! Of course you shall be paid for your services today. What do you require?”

“ ’Twas a whole day of my time, and wages for my crew, of course,” I answered as though calculatin’. “A gold crown should cover it.”

“Will you see to it that Mistress O’Malley is paid, Philip?”

“Of course, Father,” he said, repressing his smile.

And then with cordial good-byes they departed.

In truth I hadn’t needed the money. But I wished to know the true measure of the man. He had seemed respectful enough the evening before, but appearances can be deceiving, especially with the English.

But he ’d passed my wee test, and much to my surprise his son, when he brought me my payment in gold, requested that we correspond in the coming years. He ’d enjoyed our conversation so much, he said, and wished our friendship to endure.

Well, of course I said yes, and we did begin to write to each other, but this—in addition to Richard’s surrendering to the Crown—left me torn, like holdin’ both sides of the rope in a May Day tug-o-war. Finally I saw how the chieftains felt bewildered and confused, and were mourning the loss of a clear light to guide their way in the dark night descending on Ireland.

’Twasn’t long after that that the Earl of Desmond drew us all into his dreadful web. So desperate was the man to prove his loyalty to the Crown—a loyalty that was rightly doubted—that he pitted Irish against Irish, and with more savagery than we ’d seen from any Englishman.

He ’d pillaged his way through the Munster countryside and, after a great slaughter of men, women, and children, had burnt the great town of Naas to the ground.

I had taken a hundred of my men—sailors turned soldiers—to defend the Burkes’ southern border, where we ’d heard that Desmond ’s fighters had invaded. Well, it was all too obvious where his troops had been. They’d laid waste to the pastures, killin’ the cattle—for it was too far to drive them back to Munster—and dumped their bloated carcasses into lakes and rivers and wells to poison them. They torched the forest, and that broke my heart, seeing the black skeletons of ancient trees, and the burnt bodies of the red and fallow deer we ’d hunted there. But worst of all were the villages.

Jesus, the cruelty! Cattle raids and skirmishing were one thing. ’Twas men against men, but here were grandmothers slain, infants with their brains bashed out. And the survivors, starving now, with skin hangin’ off their bones like the livin’ dead.

I met a young child—a girl, perhaps six. She was all but naked when she stood out from the ruin of what had once been a cottage. I think she ’d heard my voice, a woman’s voice, one not screamin’ in terror or pain, but calm and calling out orders to her men. She just stared at me, dirt and tears and snot obscuring what had once been a beautiful little face. I climbed down from my horse and went to her, down on my knees, and without a word she put her arms around me and wept. Oh it tore my heart, for I knew she was alone, an orphan, and from the dreadful smell of the place, the bodies of her kin were not yet buried. I had my men inter them while I took her to the stream and washed her face, which was indeed as lovely as a spring flower. Her name was Alice.

“Can you tell me what happened, Alice? How many came? From what direction? And in what direction did they go?”

“I cannot say,” she replied. “They came in the night. I was asleep with my mam.” Alice began to weep again.

“All right. No need to remember. Here, don’t cry, sweet girl.”

“But they fell on her. All of them, and they killed her! And the babe inside her too!”

“Oh, Alice.”

I held her again and she whispered hoarsely in my ear.

“She begged them. My mam said please don’t harm me, for the unborn child will die. They laughed and pulled down their breeches, one by one, and then . . . and then . . .”

How could they?
I thought.
Irishmen. Neighbors from the next county.

Desmond’s Munstermen who raped and killed a woman pleading her belly.

Unconscionable! What on earth could Gerald be thinking? I had to know.

I’d not sailed the Shannon for many years. ’Twas the finest river of the west, wide and rimmed with dense forests on its shores, Limerick sprawled along its banks fifty miles inland from the coast. Fifteen miles before the city was the fork of the Deel River, and the island castle of Askeaton. I’d not visited there since I was a child, having gone with my father to treat with Gerald Fitzgerald ’s father, the thirteenth Earl of Desmond.

I remember that time well, for the earl had just incurred the wrath of Henry the Eighth. Your father had most generously offered that the earl’s young son Gerald come to England to be reared with Henry’s own son, Prince Edward, for a boon companion. A fine offer for an Irish lad, even one so highborn. But the earl refused it out of hand, claiming that the boy could learn all he needed of courtly life and state affairs in Ireland. Gerald’s mother had suffered terrors that the fearsome Henry—a man not averse to whacking his own wives’ heads off—would not more easily revenge an Irishman’s insult, noble or not.

So I’d met Gerald, eight years old to my eleven. He was small and skinny and dark, with eyes too big for his head, but pretty all the same.

He rode well, but there was bad blood ’tween father and son, as Gerald was spoilt, and a paltry swordsman to boot.

Now as we rowed the
Dorcas
down the Deel, I remembered the countryside round the castle. The flaithlands were as lovely and wild as any-place in Ireland. Gorgeous rolling hills and green bogs, forests of mighty pines running with red deer, and rich plowlands woven with deep, swift streams. There were few roads, and with Askeaton even farther from Cork than from Limerick—both English-held towns—’twas secluded enough, and all the refuge the Earl of Desmond needed from the Crown.

The island castle came into view, huge and square with great round towers in each corner, except for the south, which was square and high and fit for defense. We were met by several boats full of Gerald ’s soldiers who demanded our business and insisted I come with two attendants only, for this unannounced audience with the great Earl of Desmond.

I chose my two best men, David MacSheey and Cormac Downe, and we were rowed to the castle quay, shown in through the gate to the huge courtyard with its gathering and dining halls within, blooming gardens and fish ponds, where two men were netting a good-size trout for their master’s supper. We found the courtyard crowded and abuzz, and I waited with my men and Gerald’s retainers, his tenants, bards, and musicians, while my presence was being announced to the Earl and Lady Desmond. ’Twas the closest thing to a royal “court” in Ireland, except perhaps Tom of Ormond’s home in Leinster. But the Ormond court would be English and genteel and altogether Protestant next to this raucous melee. ’Twas Gaelic and Catholic and felt ancient, like times gone by.

When the page came from Gerald, callin’ me in—me who’d just arrived, with other petitioners loitering about, some having waited a week for an audience—an outraged cry went up from them. I turned on my charm, claimin’ ’twas no slight to them, for I was the only woman amongst them, and ladies went first. They booed and hissed all the same, but I was gratified that Desmond had shown respect in granting me a speedy audience. It crossed my mind that Eleanor, his wife, had a hand in it, for she was one of the few Irish women of our day who had a back-bone in her body, and stood up to her husband.

Indeed, she reclined on a silk couch by his side at a long, otherwise empty table in a dining hall strewn with fresh rushes and hung with gold-shot tapestries. Eleanor had a face more sweet and mild than her temper, which was not harsh as much as staunch. She ’d have been a fine man, I always thought, though she would have been improved by a touch of humor, which was altogether missing, as far as I could tell.