All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “I’ll send for my sister Eibhlin,” she said quietly, and then she helped him to rise and reach his bed. He was hard put not to grin mischievously at her, so apparent was her concern over him. Fate had conspired with him to keep her and the children here. She’d not leave a dying man for all she talked.

  Eibhlin O’Malley, a nun at the island convent of St. Bride’s of the Cliffs, was famed in Connaught for her midwifery and her healing skills. She was in great demand, and her service among the wealthy had greatly enriched her small convent. Her service among the poor, and there were so many poor, had convinced Eibhlin that if there were a hundred of her it wouldn’t be enough. Between her religious devotions and her growing medical practice, she averaged but two to four hours’ sleep a night. At home in her convent for a short rest, she still came quickly across a stormy winter sea when called by her younger sister, Skye.

  “I’m surprised that he’s still alive,” she told Skye drily after she had made a careful examination of the old man.

  “Can we do nothing?” Skye was troubled. She was still angry at Rory, but she loved him as she had loved her own father.

  “You can make him comfortable,” Eibhlin said, “and you can promise him not to take the children back to Innisfana.”

  “Did he tell you I was going to take them?” Skye fenced with her elder sister.

  “Well, isn’t that what you threatened?” Eibhlin’s pretty face peered sharply at her younger sister from between the folds of her starched wimple.

  “I cannot bear this castle without Niall. I have never liked it, but without Niall it is impossible!” Skye wailed.

  “It is Padraic’s inheritance, sister.”

  “You need not remind me of that, sister,” Skye retorted sharply. “He will have it! Did I not protect Lynmouth for Robin? Can I do any less for Niall’s son?”

  “Have you cried yet, Skye?” Eibhlin looked closely at her sister.

  Skye’s face was a closed and tight mask. “I have cried,” she said, “for all the good it did me, which was none. I should be used to it by now, Eibhlin. How many husbands have I buried? Four! No, I take that back. I have only buried three. Niall’s body was not found. It is lost at sea, the very sea that has enriched the O’Malleys so.” A harsh laugh escaped her. “Our fierce old sea god, Mannanan MacLir, has taken his price from me, but ’tis too dear a price, Eibhlin. ’Tis too dear!” Her voice was trembling.

  “Skye!” Eibhlin put a loving arm about her sister, but she felt totally helpless. How could she possibly comfort her sibling for such a loss. Niall Burke had been Skye’s first great love, and when they had finally wed everyone expected him to be her last love as well.

  “She killed him without mercy, Eibhlin,” Skye said. “Darragh O’Neil murdered my husband, and do you know why?”

  “No, Skye,” Eibhlin replied gently. “I know nothing but that Lord Burke is dead, and tragically at the hands of Sister Mary Penitent.”

  “Sister Mary Penitent!” Skye’s voice shook with anger. “Darragh O’Neil! ’twas Darragh O’Neil who murdered my husband! Darragh O’Neil for all her religious calling! She lured him to her side by saying she was dying, and wanted to make her peace with him. Instead, she stabbed him to death—and condemned her own soul to eternal damnation. She has wantonly widowed me and cruelly orphaned my two children! I’d like to kill her with my own two hands, Eibhlin, but her convent protects her, says she is mad! I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it, but they will not let me in to speak with her. They say that the mention of my name sends her into fits. Fits indeed! The bitch knows full well what she has done! ’Tis naught but a ploy to escape me. God’s bones! I’d like to set the English upon that convent!”

  “Skye!” Eibhlin was shocked. The English in Ireland were at this very time as systematically attempting to wipe out all the religious houses as their late sovereign, Henry VIII, had destroyed those same establishments in his own England. It was not as easy in Ireland, however, as it had been in England. The Irish did not love their English rulers, and this attack on their Church gave them one thing to which they could all rally honestly, peasant and noble alike.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t, Eibhlin,” Skye said contritely. “Uncle Seamus would have my head if I did, but I’d like to do it!”

  “I will get Uncle Seamus to aid us,” Eibhlin said. “As the Bishop of Connaught he must order an investigation into Lord Burke’s death. I will ask him to send me to do the interrogation, Skye.”

  “Darragh’s order is a cloistered one,” Skye said. “He’ll get nowhere with her Mother Superior. She was Aigneis O’Brien, and she’s prouder than all the damned high O’Neils put together. She will say nothing other than Sister Mary Penitent is mad; Sister Mary Penitent is being restrained; that the nuns of St. Mary’s will pray daily for Lord Burke’s soul.”

  Eibhlin’s pale-gray eyes darkened with anger, and the tone of her voice was more O’Malley warrior than humble nun. “With or without Uncle Seamus’s aid I shall get into St. Mary’s,” she said, “and I will find the truth of it for you, Skye. I do not understand why after all these years Darragh sought to seek out and kill Lord Burke. He did her no harm. Their marriage victimized him as much as it did her, and he helped to restore her to her precious convent. I don’t understand why she suddenly felt it necessary to kill him; but I shall find out, Skye. I shall find out!”

  The two sisters embraced, and suddenly Skye began to weep, a harsh, bitter sound of such intense grief that Eibhlin, holding her and attempting to comfort her, felt her own cheeks wet with silent tears. How long they stood there swaying with their sorrow, clinging to each other, Eibhlin never knew, but suddenly Daisy, Skye’s faithful English tiring woman, was running into the room and urgently begging them to follow her.

  “ ’Tis the old man, m’ lady! He’s dying,” Daisy said. “You must hurry, for he wants you!” She quickly turned from them, hastening out of the room.

  Skye and Eibhlin swiftly composed themselves and followed Daisy, moving through the icy-cold castle corridors to the warm chamber in which Rory Burke, the MacWilliam, lay eking out his last few moments upon this earth. Already the castle priest knelt by his side administering the last rites to the old man lying in his bed hung with wine-colored velvet. Still the MacWilliam’s rheumy eyes lit up at the sight of Skye, and feebly he motioned her to his side, while at the same time impatiently waving the nervous cleric aside.

  “You’ll not be going home to Innisfana now, Skye lass,” he whispered at her with an attempt at humor.

  “No, Rory ban, I’ll not be going now,” she answered him gently. Please don’t die on me, old man, she silently thought. You’re the last little bit I’ve left of my Niall. Oh, the boy’s his son, but he’s a babe, and we have no memories in common. Don’t die, old man! Stay with me!

  “The first time I saw you, do you remember the first time I saw you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “ ’twas the feast of Twelfth Night, and you’d called all your vassals together to celebrate. I was wed but a few months to Dom, and was already carrying his first child. Ah, Rory, when you first saw me you regretted the O’Neil match, you did!” She smiled at the memory of the proud young thing she’d been then.

  “I did,” he finally admitted to her, “but in the end, Skye lass, you became Niall’s wife, and the mother of my only two heirs. Protect them, Skye! Don’t let the English take Padraic’s heritage! By tomorrow he’ll be the MacWilliam, and you must hold his inheritance until he comes of age. Promise me, Skye lass!”

  The years were sliding away and she was a young girl again, and her dying father was thrusting the entire responsibility of the O’Malleys of Innisfana upon her slender shoulders. All the ships, her five younger brothers, the goods and the warehouses, and the people—all her personal responsibility. She had it still.

  Then, too, there was her second husband Khalid el Bey’s vast fortune to administer, and the monies and estates of her third husband, Geoffrey Southwood, the late Earl of Lynm
outh; as well as the care of her four other children besides Deirdre and Padraic Burke. Now, suddenly, Niall was torn from her, and his dying father was pressing more responsibility upon her. It was far too much for one woman alone, and yet she could not refuse him. How could she? Would there ever come a time when she might be just a woman? She was so tired of it all, yet she couldn’t let him down.

  “I’ll do my best, Rory,” she said wearily. “I’ll do my best.”

  He smiled up at her, trusting and satisfied. Then, closing his eyes, he quietly died. Exhausted, she walked from the room as her sister and the priest, their beads magically in their hands, fell to their knees and began to say the rosary. Daisy walked a step behind her, only hurrying ahead of her mistress as they reached Skye’s apartments so she might open the door.

  “Get me some wine,” Skye said as she sought the relative comfort of a large chair by the fireplace. Sitting down, she watched the low flames darting among the peatfire, and wondered what she would do. How long did she have before the English would come arrogantly to confiscate her infant son’s holdings. The old MacWilliam’s death would be the perfect excuse for them, for the wily old man had given them no cause while he lived to abuse him. Not that the English in Ireland needed excuses to ill treat the Irish. No one would come to her aid when it happened, and she couldn’t blame them. More than likely, one or more of her Irish neighbors would try to steal some of the Burke lands, too. Her very gender gave them the excuse they needed. A woman and child were easy prey for the cowards they all were. “Well, they’ll not have it!” she said aloud as Daisy put the goblet into her hand.

  “What’s that, m’lady? Who not have what?” Daisy was puzzled.

  “The damned Dublin English, Daisy, and our Irish neighbors, that’s who! They’ll not have Burke Castle, or Burke lands! Those are my Padraic’s and I intend that it remain so.”

  “But what can you do about it, my lady? If we were in England you might appeal to the Queen, but England is far, and London farther.”

  “I’m going to England, Daisy!”

  “But you’ve been forbidden, m’lady! They’ll clap you back in the Tower of London, they will! You can’t go!” Daisy’s eyes were round with her genuine concern. She had been with her mistress for seven years, and she loved her dearly. She also knew her well. When Skye made up her mind, little if anything could stop her.

  “I’ve been banished from court, Daisy, but not necessarily from England,” Skye said craftily. “I shall go to Lynmouth, and from there I shall appeal to the Queen’s Secretary of State, Lord Burghley. If it is Elizabeth Tudor’s intention to aid me, I shall be permitted to travel to London. If not, I shall still try to make my appeal from Devon. I cannot sit here, Daisy, and just wait for the English to come and take Padraic’s inheritance. When Southwood died I protected his son, and I must protect Niall’s son, too. He can have nothing of the O’Malleys, for though I bear the title and the responsibilities of the O’Malley, it all belongs to my brothers and their heirs. If I cannot save Burke Castle and its lands for its rightful heir, then my poor Padraic will be landless and nameless. The ghosts of a hundred generations of Burkes would haunt me into eternity if I let that happen, Daisy.”

  “When will you go?” Neither Daisy nor her mistress had heard the door open and close, but Eibhlin now stood within the room.

  “Now,” Skye said. “I cannot lose a minute, sister. The word will be in Dublin quickly enough that Rory Burke is dead. I cannot even stay long enough to bury him, but he most of all would understand my haste.”

  Eibhlin nodded. “Then I’ll be on my way to St. Mary’s Convent to learn what I can of Niall’s death. Uncle Seamus would approve, I know. Who will you leave in charge here?”

  “Connor FitzBurke,” Skye replied.

  “Niall’s bastard brother? Is that wise, Skye?”

  “Connor is the most loyal man I know, Eibhlin. He is a simple and good fellow without ambition. It would not occur to Connor to usurp Padraic’s inheritance. He will protect the children and their inheritance with his own life. I can’t take the children with me. I must travel too quickly.”

  Listening, Daisy winced, and then wondered why she even bothered. Her bottom had been beaten to leather by now in Mistress Skye’s service. One more midnight ride wasn’t going to kill her. She never doubted that she would travel with her mistress. After all, no one else could do her lady’s hair for court the way she could, and Daisy did not doubt that they’d be back at court. Nor did anyone else know the correct jewelry that went with each magnificent gown. No, she would be riding out with her mistress before the dawn even considered breaking.

  “Daisy?”

  The tiring woman looked up smiling. “Within the hour, my lady?” she asked, fully knowing the answer.

  Skye nodded smiling back. “Aye, Daisy. Just when I thought that our adventures were over, we’re off again!”

  Daisy couldn’t resist a mischievous grin. “I can’t say I mind, m’lady. It was getting a bit quiet for me around here.”

  “God ha’ mercy!” Eibhlin cried. “She’s surely become one of us!”

  “And not a bad thing either,” Skye replied as Daisy hurried off. “A tiring woman who can keep up with me on a horse is a valuable asset, sister.” Then she sobered. “Will you see to the servants for me, Eibhlin? I will need time to gather my wits before I speak to Connor.”

  “I’ll see to it,” was the quick reply, and then Skye found herself alone once more.

  She rose and walked over to the windows to look down across the darkened countryside. A waning moon cast its pale, weak light across the soft, shadowed hills. Somehow, she thought, it should have been a wild and stormy night that Rory Burke took his leave of this earth, not this calm and windless time. For all of Ireland’s rich mystical heritage, there hadn’t been a sign or sound of the ghostly death coach come to take Rory Burke’s soul away. Neither had there been the faintest wail of a banshee. She pushed the casement open and heard the frantic scream of a rabbit as a hunting owl found his prey; and then all was silent again. Life went on, she noted. No matter the changes, life went on. Skye O’Malley sighed deeply. There was no more time for mourning.

  Part 1

  ENGLAND

  Chapter 1

  IT was the strong sense of family that the O’Malleys possessed that brought Seamus O’Malley to his niece before her hurried departure for England. In his fine stone bishop’s house a few miles down the road from Burke Castle, he had awakened suddenly in the middle of the night and known that she needed him. The old man had gotten up from his warm bed, dressed himself, and ridden off up the hill to aid her.

  Seamus O’Malley agreed with his niece’s assessment of the situation. She had to go to England for the Tudor wench’s help. The bishop was a realist. He didn’t like the English, but they held the whip hand. He suggested that the news of the Mac-William’s death be kept secret; that he be buried surreptitiously. It was easy enough to do, for the entire castle still slept and the guards on the walls couldn’t see what went on inside the building. With the aid of the family priest and Rory Burke’s personal servant, the body was placed in the family crypt; the final mass was said in the early dawn after Skye had ridden off under cover of darkness.

  Then Seamus took up residence in Burke Castle and, in league with the priest, the servant, and Connor FitzBurke, conspired to keep the rest of Ireland from learning of Rory Burke’s death while Skye hurried to gain English aid before little Padraic Burke’s inheritance was stolen.

  The lady of the castle, said to be keeping a vigil for the ailing MacWilliam, was in truth galloping across Ireland to Waterford harbor, where several of her ships were presently berthed. The need for haste was so imperative that Skye and Daisy rode eighteen hours a day, stopping only to change horses, to eat a hot meal, and to rest a few hours daily. They stayed only with trusted friends, sleeping in the chilly lofts of their barns during the daylight hours to avoid curious eyes, and more curious questions. Even the most l
oyal servants gossiped.

  At Waterford, Skye took passage upon her stepmother’s vessel, the Ban-Righ A’Ceo (Queen of the Mist). No sooner had the ship cleared the harbor than she commanded the captain, “Kelly! Set a course for Lundy Island.” Then she disappeared into the master’s cabin with her tiring woman.

  Daisy sighed with relief at feeling the swell of the open sea and the chill late-winter wind that filled the sails. “Every mile we galloped I thought sure the Dublin English would be after us, my lady.”

  Skye laughed, relieved herself. She always felt vulnerable upon the land, but upon the sea none was her equal. “Daisy, you speak as if you were Irish yourself,” she teased her tiring woman. “Have you been with me so long that you’re beginning to feel Irish?”

  “I’m English all right, m’lady, but I’m Devon English, and that’s a whole lot better than being Dublin English. In Devon we’re kind people, but those Dublin English are wolves of the worst sort!”

  Skye nodded in agreement, and then said, “We’ve a good strong breeze behind us. With luck we’ll make Lundy in two days’ time.”

  “He’ll be glad to see you,” Daisy remarked quietly, understanding her lady’s need. Like most trusted servants, she knew all the intimate details of her mistress’s life. They had been together a long time, and if Skye had grown more beautiful with the years, Daisy had changed not a whit. Small and apple-cheeked, her soft brown eyes were loving of Skye and watchful of others. She was no beauty, and never had been, being as freckled as a thrush’s egg; but her gap-toothed smile was warm and merry.

  “I have to see him,” Skye replied. “He is the only friend I have left, Daisy, besides Robert Small, and Robbie is at sea. He is not expected back for at least another month. I must talk with Adam.” She curled up on the large master’s bed, drawing a down coverlet over her. “God’s bones, Daisy, but I’m tired! Take the trundle and get some sleep yourself, girl. We’ve ridden hard these past three days.”