Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  Frankie felt her eyes on him. Slowly, fighting a fatigue that never quite left him, he sat up.

  “Is she better?” Jilly asked.

  He rested his palm on the dog’s flank and felt the steady rise and fall of her heart. “Aye. A wee bit better.”

  Jilly scrambled to her feet. “I brought some food. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Y’ needn’t wait on me, lass,” he said gently, uncomfortable with the child’s adoration.

  “I don’t mind.” Already, she had arranged the plates on the table. “I’ll sit with Guinevere while you eat.”

  “There’s no need. She’ll sleep the night and more.” He stood, waiting for her to leave.

  Jilly knew he wanted her to go. Somehow, without speaking, he had communicated his need. She hesitated, took another look at the dog, and moved regretfully toward the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said. “To see the dog, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Was he mocking her? Jilly didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. Whether he wanted her there or not, she would come back tomorrow.

  Kildare, Ireland, 1537

  He came upon her in the gloaming, two leagues from the gates of Maynooth, and knew instantly that she was Eleanor Fitzgerald. It was right, he thought, that they should meet this way without the trappings of wealth, family, and formality, for, in the end, in the sweetly scented darkness hemmed in by ocean and forest and bog, it would be just the two of them, and they must find their way together.

  And so, in the space of a moment, after a single startled glance into a girl’s light-filled eyes, he made a decision that all the months of negotiation, the subtle bribes, the exchange of gifts, and the pleas of well-meaning relatives could not, until this moment, force him to make.

  Donal O’Flaherty was his own man, chosen in the old Celtic tradition for his ability to lead, rather than by accident of birth or lineage. His views on marriage were as definite as his devotion to the Church and his loyalty to his clan. Marriage was a sacrament meant to last a lifetime, never to be entered into lightly. A satisfactory mate was as necessary as nourishment. In Galway, where the winter nights were long, a man and woman spent many hours in each other’s company. It would be the height of foolishness to choose a bride merely for the dowry she would bring him.

  Donal knew Eleanor would be well favored. He could not imagine himself wedded to a woman who was not. And because she was a Geraldine, he knew she would be small, fair-haired, and versed in many languages. But when she welcomed him in his native tongue, he was not prepared for the low and lovely pitch of her voice, or the heart-shattering purity of her smile, or those eyes, the color of brook hazel, that saw deeply, too deeply, into the depths of his soul and stripped him of all but the truth that lay naked and stretched out between them.

  Donal O’Flaherty of Aughnanure had not wanted a Sean Ghall’s daughter for his bride, not even a Sean Ghall with the power and presence of Gerald Og Fitzgerald of Maynooth, ninth earl of Kildare. His father, Ruardaigh O’Flaherty, called him a fool. It was the duty of an Irish chieftain to bring gold and powerful allies into his house. Nowhere in Ireland was there a family with the wealth and power of the Geraldines. Some called them the uncrowned kings of Ireland.

  Still, Donal hesitated to pledge himself. He was nineteen, young yet for marriage, and his bloodline was pure Celt with a bit of Norse invader to round it out. There was no need to bring a woman of English blood into his house.

  The Fitzgeralds had turned Protestant, as English as they were Irish, claiming kinship to Henry Tudor. Their lands encompassed Desmond, South Munster, and nearly all of the counties of Kildare, Meath, Dublin, and Carlow. Fitzgerald castles stretched beyond Strangford Lough on the coast of Down to Adare, and the Fitzgerald fleet patrolled the Irish seas. Maynooth, the principal seat of Kildare, was one of the richest houses in Ireland. It was no small thing to bring such an ally into one’s family. But the taint of England was strong. If he married a Fitzgerald, his sons and daughters would no longer be true Irish. It was a bitter herb to swallow, too much to ask of an O’Flaherty chief, a carrier of the oldest, purest bloodline in all of Ireland.

  His reasons for refusing Kildare’s daughter were strong. But Donal was more than an O’Flaherty chieftain. He was a man, a man who noticed how the setting sun outlined a woman’s figure and turned the thick braid of hair hanging over her shoulder into a rope of pure silver.

  When she smiled, the knot of resistance inside his chest dissolved. Donal no longer cared that her father was cousin to Henry Tudor or that her uncles’ navy prowled the seas or that the blood of his children would be as English as it was Irish. He saw only Nell, and that was enough. Stepping forward, he held out his hand and smiled. “Da duit,” he said, and introduced himself.

  At the sound of his voice, Nell’s hand clenched the fur of the enormous wolfhound that followed her everywhere. For months, ever since her father told her she must wed, she had thought of little else but Donal O’Flaherty. She had first noticed him four years before at Emain Macha during the celebration of Beltane.

  For most of the day, Nell had stayed inside her mother’s tent, for only native Irish attended. Nell knew her lineage. She was Sean Ghall, daughter of Maeve O’Conor, an Irish princess, and Gerald Fitzgerald, an Anglo-Irish lord. For a Christian to be seen in the ancient kingdom of Ulster at Beltane would invite the wrath of both the blue-painted druids, who resented the disturbance of their rituals, and the parish priests, who condemned the mystical incantations, the frenzied passions leading up to ancient fertility rites, as devil worship.

  But curiosity and muffled laughter from beyond the clearing overcame Nell’s fears. When the flames of the sacred fire burned down, after the priestess had danced, evoked the voice of the goddess, and chosen the great horned stag as her mate, Nell wrapped herself in wool and crept through the clearing to the woods. The night was bright with moonlight, and beneath every bush men and women lay together, their bodies joined in various stages of passion.

  Nell was eleven years old and unawakened. But her mind was quick, and she was not unaware of what went on between a man and a woman. Before she could fully take in the significance of the scene before her, a hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her back against a hard chest. A thick voice whispered into her ear, “So, I’m not too late after all.”

  The drug-laced voice and sour breath, the heavy breathing and unnatural stiffness of the masculine body, brought Nell to a fear she had never known before. She began to struggle. The man cursed and released her mouth to cuff her on the side of the head. She fell to the ground only to be jerked back to her feet. “Please,” she begged, striving for the dignity befitting a Fitzgerald of Kildare. “Don’t hurt me. Take me to my mother. My father will reward you.”

  Unexpectedly, the man released her. She fell backward into the grass, blinked her eyes, and looked up. Her captor was held at bay by a blade of deadly steel, its handle sparkling with precious jewels. A thin scarlet line of red appeared on the pale skin of his throat.

  Nell’s eyes widened. Her savior was young, still a boy, and his face was twisted with anger, but still she could see the strength of his features. “She’s a wee lass, you drunken son of a whore, and not a willing one,” he growled. “You know the law. Rape destroys the magic. ’Tis punishable by death.”

  The man swallowed and stepped back, away from the menace of the weapon. “Mercy, sir,” he whispered, falling to his knees. “Mercy.”

  The boy lowered his dirk. “Leave here, now.”

  The man stumbled into the darkness. Nell waited for the boy to speak. When he did, she was too tongue-tied to answer.

  Her silence confused him. “Did he hurt you, lass? Can you speak? I am Donal O’Flaherty, and I swear that he will pay.”

  Nell shook her head. “He had no time.” She ducked her head shyly. “I thank you, sir, f
or rescuing me.”

  All trace of anger had left him, and Nell, looking him full in the face for the first time, caught her breath. If a boy could be called beautiful, this one would be. Shining dark hair fell past his shoulders, framing a thin, squared-off face. His high-boned cheeks and thin, arrogant nose revealed his bloodline as surely as did the deep-set, rain-colored eyes and soaring black eyebrows. He was pure Celt, of the ancient line of Talesian, marked by the fey black ring around his pupils. Even if he had not offered his name, Nell would have known him instantly.

  The O’Flahertys were kings of the isles and bowed to no one. Their courage was legendary on land, and on the sea, where piracy was a way of life, their feats were extolled by the bards around a hundred great hall fires. Those who tried to apprehend them told stories of men and horses disappearing into the mists and melting into the trees.

  He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, his hands rough upon her shoulders. “What have you seen this night?”

  Nell blushed and looked at the ground. He shook her slightly, absentmindedly fingering the fine wool of her cloak. “Beltane is not for children. Have you a place to go?”

  “Yes.” Too late, she realized her mistake.

  “I’ll take you,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  “No.” Nell pulled away.

  He frowned. “Come, lass. This is no place for the likes of you.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  He eyed the sable-lined cloak. “I know that you are noble-born.”

  “They’ll think the worst and blame you,” she improvised. “You’ll have to marry me.”

  He laughed. “You’re an absurd child. I saved you. They’ll thank me, and there will be no talk of marriage.”

  Nell shook her head. “You don’t know them.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My father is English.”

  He recoiled, distrust and horror mingling with his sense of chivalry. “What are you doing here?”

  “My mother is Irish.”

  “Who are you?”

  Nell didn’t answer. She took her skirt in her hand and fled. She was thankful he didn’t follow her.

  Four years later, he stood before her without recognition, an unwilling applicant for her hand. Nell was no longer too young for marriage. She knew the black-haired boy with the startling gray eyes was Donal O’Flaherty from the Beltane fires. She also knew that he didn’t want a Fitzgerald for his bride. Nell intended to change his mind, for it had come to her, suddenly, like an epiphany, the realization that she would never want anyone else.

  Two

  Jilly heard his voice long before her legs, pumping at full speed, carried her to the door of the kennel. There she watched in impotent fury as Terrence, her sixteen-year-old brother, tormented Frankie Maguire.

  “Speak up, lad. I gave you an order.”

  Frankie swallowed. “I’m nn-nn-nnnot—”

  “What’s the matter?” Terrence jeered. “Can’t get the words out? Maybe you’re demented. That’s it.” He noticed his sister quivering with anger. “Jilly, look here. We’ve got a loony in the kennel.”

  Jillian stepped forward. “Stop it, Terrence.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “The lad needs a lesson in manners.” He swung his crop back and forth. “My mount needs saddling. Are you dense, lad? I mean for you to do it.”

  Frankie neither spoke nor moved, but the crimson ebbed and flowed in his cheeks.

  Jilly felt the bile rise in her throat. She watched as Terrence lifted his crop and brought it down, hard, on the inside of Frankie’s wrist. Skin tore. Blood ran into the younger boy’s palm and dripped to the ground. Still, he remained silent.

  Jilly’s eyes burned. She pressed her fist against her mouth. Terrence lifted his crop again, but before he could bring it down, she lunged forward, dragging at his arm with her weight. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it, or I’ll tell Mum.”

  Cursing, Terrence slapped her face and threw her aside as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. Jilly landed against the fence and slipped to the ground, unable to find her breath. Through the roaring in her ears, she heard a sound like a wolf’s howl. Gasping, she struggled to sit up, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The sight of the girl’s blue face and racked body mobilized Frankie in a way that his own pain had not. Rage came to him as it comes to all who are slow to anger, with an intensity that grips the mind and sweeps clean everything before it like the path of a hurricane. He threw himself on Terrence, slamming his forehead into the boy’s nose and splitting his lip before Terrence gained the advantage and flipped him over, lifting a punishing fist.

  Before he could bring it down, Jilly jumped on his back, twined her arms around his neck, found his earlobe, and bit down. The metallic taste of warm blood filled her mouth. Behind her a voice shouted something she couldn’t understand. Pain exploded in her head, and then everything went black.

  ***

  Slowly, through the cobwebs cushioning her brain, words began to take shape and make sense. Jilly turned her head and winced against the pain in her temple. Cool hands moved against her skin.

  “There, there, darling,” her mother’s voice crooned. “Everything will be all right.”

  Jilly opened her eyes. “I’m hungry.”

  “You shall have your tea as soon as you can sit up.”

  “Will you set a place for Nell?”

  Margaret Fitzgerald sighed. “Jilly, love, don’t you think it’s time to put Nell to rest? After all, you’re nearly eleven years old.”

  Jilly turned her face to the wall.

  Her mother sighed again. “Very well. I’ll have a tray brought up for you and Nell.”

  “Terrence is a beast,” Jilly said.

  Her mother’s forehead wrinkled. “Whatever possessed you, Jilly?”

  “He was hurting Frankie.”

  “But you’re a girl,” her mother protested, “and a very small one. Surely, a big boy like Francis doesn’t need you to fight his battles.”

  Jilly shook her head. “He wouldn’t fight Terrence. No one fights with Terrence.”

  Margaret Fitzgerald sighed. “Terrence is”—she searched for the right word to describe her stepson—“difficult. Your father has spoiled him dreadfully, I’m afraid. But it isn’t your concern, Jillian. I want you to stay away from Terrence, and from Frankie Maguire.”

  Jilly tightened her lips.

  “You heard me, Jillian,” her mother said sternly. “I want you to promise me that you won’t go near the kennel when the Maguire boy is there.”

  Jilly remained silent.

  Her mother softened. “Please, Jilly.”

  Stone-faced, Jilly remained silent.

  Margaret recognized the mutinous look on her daughter’s face and gave up. Jilly went her own way. She always had. Margaret blamed it on Pyers. Delighted with his miracle daughter after he’d reconciled himself to never having another child, Pyers couldn’t bring himself to discipline her. On those occasions when Margaret was completely honest with herself, she admitted to an equal share of the blame. Jilly was such a joy, so spirited and wise, so dear and pretty and full of life, so different from Terrence, that it seemed cruel to curb her. Pyers was flying home tonight. Margaret wondered what he would do about Frankie. It would be a shame to lose an excellent kennel keeper like Peter Maguire because of Terrence’s cruel streak.

  Those were Pyers Fitzgerald’s precise comments to his wife after she told him of the incident. Rather than embarrass his son or Peter Maguire, he did what Pyers did best. He ignored the matter entirely, and, because he forgot it, he assumed that everyone else had as well.

  He was mistaken. Jilly didn’t forget, nor did Frankie or Terrence.

  The very next day, Jilly rested her arms on the led
ge of the Dutch door and watched Guinevere lap up something that looked like pig slops from her bowl. Frankie was running his hands down every one of her legs but the bandaged one. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Lookin’ for injuries,” he said without looking up.

  “They said you might not be back.”

  His hair had fallen over his forehead, and he tossed it back impatiently. “Who said?”

  “My father and Mum.”

  He shrugged. “My da needs the help just now. Besides, I’ve done nothin’ wrong.”

  Jilly smiled sunnily. “I told Mum that Terrence couldn’t chase you away.”

  Finished with his examination, Frankie sat back on a bale of hay, pulled out a straw, and chewed on it. “You’re not much like him, are you?”

  She shook her head. “My father was married to someone else before he married Mum. Terrence’s mother died. That’s why we don’t look alike.”

  Frankie took in the sun-streaked brown hair pulled away from her face in a single braid, the expressive ocean-colored eyes framed in feathery, gold-tipped lashes, and her delicate, heart-shaped face. His mouth twisted in amusement. “It’s not y’r looks that’s different.”

  “What, then?”

  He hadn’t planned on telling her what her nearly suicidal leap to his defense meant to him. Clearing his throat, he did the next best thing. “You’re a brave one for such a wee lass.”

  “Nell says I’ve the Fitzgerald temper,” she said solemnly. “It makes me do dreadful things.”

  He nodded. “I know about that. I’ve a wee bit of a temper myself.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t saddle Terrence’s horse?”

  “It is.”

  Jilly climbed down from the door and opened it to step inside. “How is Gwenny?”

  “She’ll be all sorted out in no time. Food and rest is what she needs.”

  “Why does your father need help just now?”

  One black eyebrow quirked. “You’re a nosy lass.”

  Jilly flushed. “You don’t have to tell me.”