The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (32 page)

“I shall also messenger the Council in Dublin,” said Clifford.

“You’ve been the subject of considerable discussion there.”

“Have I?”

“It was decided that if you were somehow to escape O’Donnell, we should be prepared to make you an offer you would no doubt find pleasing.”

Donal shot Tibbot an encouraging smile.

“What is this offer?”

“Actually, we thought that
you
might compose a list of requests that would, of course, include a reparation of lands taken from you, a suitable title, and perhaps a small army of your own, paid for by the Crown.

Of course Red Hugh’s MacWilliam would—with our help—be banished from Connaught.”

Now Tibbot found himself quite speechless. He was being offered the very world by the English. He ’d known he was valuable to them, but never dreamt the extent of that valuation.

“What would the Crown demand in return?”

“Use of your fleet in bringing our troops and supply ships safely through Irish waters and into port. Your full support and loyalty to Her Majesty.” Clifford cleared his throat. “Of course such a generous offer would require a promise of good conduct.”

“A hostage.” Tibbot’s words were a whisper. There was silence, as all three men knew exactly who the hostage must be.

This was a moment fraught with danger for Conyers Clifford, Tibbot realized. He clearly—no,
desperately
—wanted this Connaught rebel on his side, though now he ’d been forced to demand a thing that could altogether quash the deal. But when Clifford next spoke, his warmth and honesty banished the chill in Tibbot’s heart.

“Of course Miles would be treated with the greatest dignity and respect, that befitting the son of a great chieftain. And there is no way to place a value on the education he would receive under an English roof—

as you did. I’m sure you wish such a privilege for your son.” Tibbot’s mind was whirling again.
Miles given as a hostage. How
would Maeve feel? What would his mother say? And of course, there was the
nagging dilemma of choosing sides. He meant to be on the
winning
side, of
 
that there was no doubt. The English were strong, but O’Donnell and O’Neill
now had the backing of Spain, and the cause of freedom spurring them on.

They might very well prove victorious.

Conyers Clifford’s soothing voice interrupted Tibbot’s ruminations.

“You needn’t decide now, my friend. There ’ll be time to think on it, discuss it with your wife. But if you will, come here and have a look at this.” He waved a hand over the map on his table. Donal Sligo with no hesitation, moved to Clifford’s side, smiling with encouragement to Tibbot.

“We ’re well into a strategy for removing Red Hugh from any remaining holdings in Mayo, then unseating Theobald Ciotach from the MacWilliamship,” Donal explained. “Till now we ’ve been at a disadvantage, with the Crown’s troops here so depleted. But with your return, Tibbot, I tell you all the Connaught chieftains will rise up behind you.

They’re outraged at Red Hugh’s incursions, and with you at their head they will fight!”

Suddenly clarity, hope, and then joy swept over Tibbot like a set of rolling breakers.
Nothing could be accomplished until that arrogant rogue
O’Donnell was put in his place. Tibbot would give his aid to the English now,
when they needed it most. He would make himself indispensable to them.

Accept their rich gifts and give his son a brilliant education. He would never
be in this enviable position himself had he not been held hostage in Richard
Bingham’s home. One discounted the might of England at his own risk. He
would not make that mistake. On the other hand, he would hold in reserve his
prerogative to take the side of his countrymen when, and if, it suited his purposes. And who was his mother to censure him for his decisions? She had
always done what had been necessary for her own survival. Now he would do
the same.

“Make room,” said Tibbot with a boyish grin as he moved to Clifford’s table. “Let me see how you plan to scourge Red Hugh O’Donnell from Connaught.”

9

BY GOD, Robert, how much more loathsome can one man’s mood become!” Southampton glared at his companion slouching in the dark carriage now jouncing along the narrow cobbled lane.

“Shall I show you?” Essex snarled back and made as if to lunge at his friend.

Southampton sighed, resigned to Robert’s petulance and abusive tongue. It was strange, however, to see the Earl of Essex in such somber garb traveling incognito about the rough streets of London in this rude coach. But where they were going, neither of them could afford to be recognized. Indeed, ’twas their destination itself that had much to do with his friend’s foul temper.

“You’re so sure it’s the French pox,” Essex said. “Why not the clap?”

“The rash. The aching limbs. I’ve seen it before. And you admitted to the chancre on your prick.”

“I suppose you would like to have examined it yourself. Closely.”

“How rude of you to say. But don’t flatter yourself, Robert,” Southampton sniffed indignantly. “I prefer my pricks large and healthy.

Right at this corner, driver!”

The carriage wheeled about in such an extreme turn that Southampton was flung into Essex’s lap. Having righted himself, Robert—red faced and muttering low curses—thrust himself bodily from the coach window and began shrieking loud threats of death and dismemberment at the driver. Southampton hauled him back in.

“Just calm yourself, man. We ’ll be there soon enough.” Essex curled up in his corner and fumed silently.

How had it come to this? Southampton wondered. A few short years ago Robert Devereaux had been a national hero—youngest of the Privy councilors, beloved by the queen; now his physical constitution was alarmingly weakened. And his list of enemies at Court was growing daily. But it was understandable, Southampton supposed. Robert had suffered more than his share of shattering setbacks in the past several years . . . and the queen had played a role in all of them.

First there had been the Calais fiasco. The Spanish king had sent his fleet to capture Calais, that spit of France within sight of the Dover cliffs, and too close for comfort should Philip prove victorious. Plans had quickly been set in motion for an English counterattack, but on the eve of departure, Elizabeth had scuttled the relief expedition, complaining that the French king still had not repaid a large loan she ’d made him, and was refusing to agree to a permanent garrison of English troops in Calais should her army prove successful. After desperate pleading by Essex, as well as her admirals and Privy councilors, the queen relented and the mission plans were resumed.

But once again, at the eleventh hour, she vacillated, canceled the expedition and insisted on waiting for the French king’s assurances that her demands would be met. Essex had, on bended knee, begged her to allow the English fleet to sail. Spanish occupation of Calais was an unacceptable risk to England. Peevish and complaining, she ’d finally agreed.

But she had delayed too long. The Spaniards had landed at Calais and won a resounding victory before the English fleet could intercept them.

Elizabeth’s dealings with Spain had proved an even more maddening example of the queen’s indecisiveness. It was widely believed that Her Majesty’s “pinprick raids” and halfhearted measures had taught their enemy precisely how to defend itself against England. Essex had been the most outspoken of her Privy councilors, arguing passionately for the necessity of a direct and devastating offensive against the Second Armada before it could strike again. Anthony Bacon’s spies in the Spanish ports were reporting the grim facts. A new, larger, and more well-prepared fleet was assembling, and the target might just as easily be Ireland as England. That small green island with its rebellious chieftains would be well pleased to invite Philip’s soldiers in. The Irish were already said to be receiving shipments of arms from Spain. They would be happy to return the favor by opening a back door to England’s largely unfortified west coast.

Therefore, a preemptive strike on Philip’s largest port—Cadiz—was planned for the June of ’96. Essex, along with Raleigh and High Admiral Howard, would command the largest English force yet gathered for a combined naval and military operation—eleven thousand men and one hundred ships, and enough supplies and ordnance for a five-month voyage.

Essex had traveled to the fleet at Plymouth to organize this mammoth effort. And he had outdone himself. His organizational skills had impressed even his most virulent detractors. He ’d not hesitated to finance a large part of the operation out of his own coffers, though he had complained to his friends that he had “a little world eating at my house.”

Six months later—days before departure—Elizabeth, unbelievably, had recalled all three of her commanders. She ’d changed her mind, she announced in a voice that was growing more shrill every day. The risk was too great. The expense unacceptable. She canceled the Cadiz adventure altogether, snapping the royal purse strings shut.

Essex had been livid, but he ’d not stood alone. He was joined in outrage by his fellow officers and much of the Privy Council.
Was the expedition not meant to forestall Spain from assisting the Irish in their rebellion
that was every day growing more costly and dangerous? How weak and harebrained would England appear in the eyes of the world?

In the end it had been Essex who turned the tide, once again crawled at the foolish old woman’s feet, begging her permission to allow the expedition to proceed. She grudgingly agreed. But her wild unpre-dictability had become apparent to all, and everyone at Court now worried that Elizabeth’s critical faculties, once impeccable, had begun disintegrating with age.

The attack on Cadiz, mused Southampton, should have been a glorious victory for Essex, the pinnacle of his career. The Spanish warships guarding the mouth of the famous Spanish harbor had easily been overcome. With God Himself smiling down, the city had been taken entirely by surprise. And Robert Devereaux, at his most magnificent, led his troops into the fortress with unerring strategies and with bravery lauded by his men and his fellow officers. The loss of English life had barely reached one hundred men, and to everyone ’s surprise, the sack of Cadiz, under Essex’s command, was carried out with unheard-of restraint and humanity.

Alas, Philip’s huge merchant fleet, anchored at the far end of the harbor, had been saved from English capture. The Duke of Medina-Sidonia—disgraced High Admiral of the first armada—was at the time of the attack governor of Cadiz. In what was surely a bittersweet triumph, Medina-Sidonia had torched the heavily laden merchant fleet, burning it to the waterline and robbing the English of twelve million ducats’ worth of goods. It had been an unforeseen accident, and at the time no blame had been laid at Essex’s feet.

Indeed, no one—despite his stunning victory—was paying heed to Essex at all. His pleas that the English fleet should stay in Cadiz, laying in wait for the imminent return of Philip’s New World Treasure Fleet, had been shouted down by Raleigh and Howard and, maddeningly, by Elizabeth’s long-distance communiqués as well. No one could be convinced of the obvious—that capturing the fifty ships laden with gold would have made frivolous the loss of the merchantmen cargoes.

Instead everyone, groaning under the weight of their personal spoils, wished to return home at once. All Robert’s instincts had screamed that they should have jumped at the chance to loot the treasure fleet, if not in Cadiz, then by sailing to the Azores to intercept it. Essex had argued this even after the English fleet had weighed anchor for home. He ’d argued as they sailed north along the Portuguese coast, and become even more forceful as they’d approached Lisbon. That city’s harbor was another stopping-off place for the Treasure Fleet. By his calculations the gold-laden ships should be only days away. To his utter dismay all his arguments and pleas had been overwhelmingly dismissed.

The English fleet had sailed home expecting uproarious congratulations, and while the public widely celebrated Essex’s capture of Cadiz with feasting and fireworks, the queen had offered nothing but the back of her hand. She was furious that Essex had lost the merchant fleet, and nearly apoplectic that he ’d dared to knight sixty-eight gentlemen for their bravery in battle. The creating of knights was the divine authority of a monarch, Elizabeth had haughtily declared. But worst of all, said the queen, stamping her feet like a spoilt child, she had made no money on the venture. Everyone else had done splendidly—even the lowliest soldier had shared in the spoils. But what return had she had on her fifty-thousand-pound investment? As far as she was concerned, the expedition was a grievous failure. Essex was an incompetent and should consider himself disgraced. Raleigh and Howard would take credit, if any were to be had.

But even worse injury had been done. Elizabeth, during Essex’s absence, had named Robert Cecil to the post of Queen’s Principal Secretary. Essex’s constant fears that his enemies would make hay when he was gone from Court had been proven out. But the final blow came when the news that Philip’s treasure fleet had blown into Lisbon Harbor unmolested,
not forty-eight hours
after the English ships—racing like rats for the safety of their Plymouth homecoming—had sailed right by that city!

Even then Elizabeth refused to relent in her rebukes and criticisms of Essex. His military judgments had been well and truly vindicated in everyone ’s eyes. Everyone ’s but the queen’s.

It was then that the two of them—Essex and Elizabeth—began their most bizarre dance. They argued. About anything. About everything.

He would rage and sulk and retire to the country, claiming illness. She would fly to his bedside and nurse him like a loving mother. Fences would be mended until the next explosion, the next flight to Wanstead House, the next reconciliation. Essex dallied during these months, not with the ladies of the Court, but with low whores whenever and wherever he could find them, making no attempt to hide his debauchery from the queen. Southampton suspected his intercourse with those base women was what had caused the syphilitic pox that was now afflicting his friend.