Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  “I see.” He was silent for a long time. Then he threw back the covers and pulled on his dressing gown. “It appears that I am tired after all,” he said coldly. “We shall have to postpone our coupling.”

  “Of course, your grace.” She sat up and retied the laces of her gown. “Your reputation for virility is unparalleled. Every woman who has shared your bed considers herself most fortunate. I am honored that you chose me. Still”—she looked puzzled—“is it something I’ve done that has put you off? Perhaps I should ask the Lady Anne if she knows why you couldn’t—” She hesitated, apparently searching for a delicate way to describe what had not happened between them.

  Arrested, Henry stared at her. Lady Anne Thomlin had been his latest interest. She was also a notorious gossip. He had no desire to have rumors of his impotence spread throughout the court. He tested the waters. “You have learned a great deal in the short time you’ve spent in my court, Nell.”

  She hid a smile. “Women are fond of gossip.”

  “Are you prone to gossip, Nell?”

  She shook her head. “I am a solitary person. I prefer my own company and have little discourse with other women.”

  He sighed. She really was too young for him, little more than a child. “I’m glad to hear it, cousin.”

  “May I retire, your majesty?”

  Henry nodded and waved her away. She forced herself to walk slowly to the door, closing it softly behind her.

  The fire had gone out in her chamber. Nell shivered and bolted the door. Jillian was sitting on the bed, awake. “It’s cold,” Nell admonished her. “Why didn’t you add more wood to the fire?”

  I didn’t notice. I haven’t been cold or hot, hungry or tired since I got here.

  Nell’s warm heart ached. “I’m so sorry, Jilly,” she said softly, walking to the bed to sit beside her. “I wish I could help you.”

  What did you call me? Jillian’s eyes were enormous in her freckled face.

  The intensity of her expression puzzled Nell. She frowned. “I believe I called your name.”

  You said Jilly. No one uses that name anymore. It was my childhood name. Only people who knew me then call me Jilly.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jillian sat up on her knees on the bed, trembling with excitement. You do remember, Nell, not all of it yet. But it’s there, and someday you’ll remember.

  Nell’s eyes softened. “I hope so. But Jilly isn’t such a far cry from Jillian. It might have been a natural shortening of your name, a gesture of affection.”

  Are you feeling affectionate?

  “Yes.” Nell smiled. “You were right. Henry Tudor is a man with an ego.”

  Jillian slid off the bed to stretch her legs. I’m pleased for you, Nell, she said after taking a turn around the room. What will happen now?

  Nell looked surprised. “I don’t know.”

  Is your brother out of danger?

  “For the moment, until Henry’s child is born. He won’t risk upsetting the queen with another execution. Apparently she has grown fond of Gerald. After that, I don’t know.”

  Leaning against the mantel, Jillian crossed her arms against her chest. Would you care for some advice?

  Nell looked thoughtfully at the leggy girl standing there in her man’s breeks and a shirt the color of her eyes. The material was something Nell had never seen or felt before. It was thin and warm and wonderfully soft. Jillian was very attractive despite her shorn head and mannish ways. Thick brown-gold hair curled against her shoulders, framing a high-boned, striking face. Although she was tall for a Geraldine, her lines were slender, almost delicate, and her small waist and full breasts would catch the attention of any man with eyes in his head. Her skin was darker than most women preferred, and dotted with freckles, a testament to long hours spent in the sun. But it was her eyes that revealed her lineage. They were Fitzgerald eyes. Thickly lashed and large, with prominent lids, they shone sage green, sometimes smoky blue, with striking gold lights running through the centers. She looked quite familiar, but then the Fitzgerald bloodline always bred strong. “Your advice has been helpful, Jilly. Tell me what you think I should do.”

  You need protection for yourself and your child. Find someone who can give it to you.

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  History is fact, Nell. Robert Montgomery will be your husband. Why not accept the inevitable and make the best of it?

  Nell’s hand moved protectively to her stomach. It was an O’Flaherty that she carried. Donal would not thank her for raising his child a Montgomery. “Have you ever been in love, Jilly?”

  The moment passed when Jillian could have denied it. Now she would have to explain. I don’t think so. Her hands twisted in her lap. No. Not really.

  Nell laughed. “Tell me about him.”

  There was never a him. I was thirteen years old. He was seventeen, the son of my father’s kennel keeper. He— Jillian bit her lip. He was accused and most likely convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t really know what happened to him. No one would tell me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jillian looked away. It doesn’t matter anymore. It was impossible.

  Nell sighed. “Aye. A servant lad and the daughter of a noble would be an impossible match.”

  Frankie wasn’t a servant, Jillian said quickly. He was going to be a veterinarian.

  Nell looked puzzled.

  It’s an animal doctor, she explained, and it isn’t impossible for men and women of different stations to marry.

  “If that’s so, then why wouldn’t they tell you what happened to him?”

  Because of what they thought he did. Jillian rubbed her arms and walked to the window. The world, shrouded in fog without streetlights, was a deep, unrelieved black where the hills and sky blended together. There’s more. My mother was worried about him for a long time. Frankie was Catholic and the Fitzgeralds Protestant. It’s a long story, Nell, but between my time and yours, the battle between the two has been one long bloodbath. Ireland is divided now. The North belongs to England and the South, the Republic, is an independent nation. In the North, the majority is Protestant. We own the land and take the jobs. The Catholics are poor and unemployed. It’s dreadful, and I’m very ashamed, but those are the facts. Frankie was one of the poor and unemployed. My family never looked beyond that to see his potential. When my brother was killed and Frankie was accused, they never spoke of him again.

  Nell nodded. “I see.” She really didn’t. She was Protestant, and Donal was Catholic. Her mother had been Catholic, her father turned Protestant by order of the king. As far as Nell could see, the two religions were identical. Everyone did not agree, of course. Many remained loyal to the Church and lost their heads when Henry split with Rome. The Fitzgeralds were God-fearing, but the Church never held great influence over them. Nell wondered what her father, the great Gerald Og, would have made of the strange world to which his descendant belonged. “Religion can be difficult at times.”

  Jillian brushed aside her comment. Religion no longer has anything at all to do with it. The conflict comes from people like the Fitzgeralds who wish to keep what they have at the expense of people who have nothing at all.

  “You sound very bitter.”

  I have nothing to be bitter about. I’m one of those who has more of everything she can possibly need.

  “Except Frankie Maguire.”

  At first the slip didn’t register, but when it did, Jillian’s eyes blazed with light. How did you know his name?

  “You told me.”

  Only his first name, only Frankie, not Maguire.

  Nell thought. “I’m sure—”

  No, said Jillian, shaking her head emphatically. You knew his name. It came from you. Somewhere inside you are memories from when you came t
o me.

  “What good are they if I can’t remember?”

  You will, said Jillian. The more we talk, the more you’ll remember.

  Nell hung her head. “I’m sorry for bringing you here, Jillian.”

  If I hadn’t come, I may never have figured out that you were really Eleanor.

  They were silent after that, lost in their own thoughts until Jillian brought up what Nell knew but would not admit. You should cultivate Robert Montgomery’s friendship. Anyone would make a better mate than Henry Tudor.

  Nell recalled Henry’s fleshy lips and pawing hands and shuddered. Robert Montgomery was not a man to be cuckolded by anyone, not even a king. He was strong and not ill favored for a man of his years. But he was not Donal. “I am handfasted to Donal O’Flaherty,” she explained. “The child I carry is his. Even were I willing, no man would take a woman to wife knowing she carries another’s babe in her belly.”

  Have you told anyone?

  “No.”

  Why not tell Robert the child is his?

  “’Tis too late for that, and even if it weren’t, the immorality of such a deception troubles me.”

  Then tell him, and let him decide. You’ve nothing to lose.

  Nell wondered at this strange new world to which Jillian belonged. Had men changed so much that they no longer cared if their women took others to their beds? She took another searching look at this self-possessed young woman from the future. “Perhaps I shall tell him. If only you could take my place and tell him for me. I’m very sure you would know what to say.”

  We aren’t enough alike for that, said Jillian practically.

  Nell wrinkled her forehead and stared at Jillian for a long moment. “I wonder if we are so very different, after all.”

  I’m much taller, and our coloring is completely different. Besides, no one can see me.

  “I’m not suggesting that you pretend to be me, Jillian. You won’t be me, but you’ll be with me, the way I’ve been with you. Without you, I would be sharing the king’s bed this very minute, and without me, your Guinevere would have died. Two minds are better than one. Perhaps that’s the reason you are here.”

  Jillian felt a trembling deep within her, and for a single thunderous second her heart stopped. Nell remembered Guinevere. You may be right, she said slowly. I’ll do what I can to help you.

  ***

  Nell stared solemnly from the window at the rain-wet coffin borne by Lord Seymour, his two sons, and a nephew. Jane had not lasted beyond the christening of her newborn son. For three dreadful days, her body battled to expel the infant she carried. Finally, when it seemed the child would die in the birthing, the physician ordered away the midwife, produced a knife, wiped it clean on his doublet, and opened her stomach.

  The babe was blue. Fearing for his life, the physician blew into the tiny mouth. His reward was a gasp followed by a mewling cry. Henry’s son would live, but his mother, torn and burning with fever, would not.

  Ten days after the birth of her son, Jane Seymour, queen of England, drew her last bubbling breath, turned her face to the wall, and died. Two days after that, Henry called for Thomas Cromwell to discuss the future of Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare.

  Robert Montgomery looked down at the parchment still wet from the king’s signature. “I don’t understand, your majesty. The boy was to be spared.”

  Henry stroked his graying beard. “I have a son. His succession will not be troubled by Geraldine ambitions.”

  “How can a child who resides here at Whitehall threaten your majesty’s power?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  Robert’s jaw tightened. He would not be the one to confirm Gerald’s execution. “The queen favored the boy,” he said.

  “Jane was ever a fool. She is dead, and I will not speak of her.”

  Robert tried again. “A Fitzgerald ally would be to your advantage. Gerald is a warm-hearted lad. With the proper guidance, he will bring you great loyalty. Others will follow.”

  Henry paused. “Does a mentor come to mind?”

  “I will be his guardian, your grace. Give me his sister to wed, and I will see that the boy serves you well.”

  Henry paused, arrested, and stared at Robert. Was there actually color in the man’s cheeks? “How long have you aspired in this direction, Robert?”

  “Never until this moment, your majesty. I know the match is an unequal one, but Lady Eleanor is fond of her brother. She will not dismiss me.”

  “By God, she will not,” roared Henry. “Else I shall have her head. Bring her to me. Bring her at once.”

  Robert was sweating beneath the fine linen of his shirtsleeves. “Please, your grace. Allow me to speak to Nell first.”

  Henry glared at him. “She shall not be allowed to refuse, Robert. Tell her it is my desire that she wed at once. I shall give you Cilcerrig Castle. Take the boy, and raise him well.”

  “It shall be as you wish, sire.”

  “Go, Robert. Go and tell her at once.”

  ***

  Nell, locked in the throes of a drugging sleep, heard the scratching at her door long before she recognized it for what it was. At first, she burrowed her head into her pillow, hoping it would go away. But the sound persisted, and finally she sat up, pushed her hair back, and slid off the bed to open the door. Her eyes met the solid wall of a masculine chest and widened.

  Robert Montgomery smiled down at her. “Good evening, my lady.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

  Nell swallowed and stepped back. “Now?”

  “Only if it pleases you, Nell. Later will do just as well.” She lifted her hand to her throat “Perhaps you’ll allow me a few moments. I was sleeping.”

  He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I shall wait in the retiring room. Take as long as you like.”

  Nell bolted the door and looked around the room. It was empty. “Jillian,” she whispered loudly. “Are you here?” There was no answer. She expected none. She must have fallen into a very deep sleep to have dreamed so vividly. Jillian Fitzgerald. She had seemed so real. Nell could still see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the clear sharp bones of her cheeks, and that mouth. Jillian Fitzgerald had the mouth of a courtesan, the lips full and pouting, slightly chapped, filled with perfectly straight teeth, not unlike her own.

  She sat down at the dressing table and stared dispassionately at her reflection. The glass was badly scarred, and the curved contours distorted her image, but even so, she knew that she was beautiful. Robert Montgomery, a landless knight of thirty years, might very well decide that a pregnant bride was a small price to pay for youth, beauty, and the Fitzgerald strain flowing through the blood of his grandchildren. She would tell him about the child. Something told her that no matter what he decided, Robert Montgomery would be a kinder gaoler than Henry Tudor.

  He rose the moment she opened the door to the small room where he waited. Nell knew that his patience had worn thin. She came directly to the point “You have news for me, sir?”

  “It is not good news, my lady.”

  She blanched. “Is it Gerald?”

  “Aye. Now that Henry has a true heir, he is more afraid than ever of your brother’s influence in Ireland.”

  “But Gerald has no ambitions in Ireland.”

  He heard her speak, but he had no idea what she said. Entranced by the play of shadow and light across her face, he stared down at her. She was smaller than he remembered, fine-boned and slender. He wondered if she would breed well and then surprised himself when he realized that he no longer cared. He wanted her whether or not she gave him children.

  “What shall I do?” Her anguished question brought him back.

  Robert’s ha
nds clenched. He knew she would accept his offer. Her brother would die if she refused, but he had a perverse wish to make her want him without the condition. “You ask nothing for yourself, Nell. Have you no thoughts for your own future?”

  “I am no threat to Henry. ’Tis not my life the king threatens.”

  “If it could be arranged, would you leave Whitehall?”

  She lifted her chin, a small woman with a spine like steel. “Not without Gerald.”

  “Nell.” His voice cracked, and he reached out to grip her shoulders. “Marry me, and Henry will spare Gerald. I will take you to Wales. The boy will live if you become my wife.”

  Her eyes blazed an angry gold. “You bargain with my brother’s life and expect me to marry you?”

  He saw his error at once. “I will not lie to you, lass. The notion was mine. I have wanted you for my own since the first moment I saw you. But ’tis Henry who threatens Gerald’s life, not I. He was planning the lad’s execution until I convinced him otherwise.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “You have no choice, Nell. Marry me, and Gerald will live.”

  She stared at him, a thousand thoughts twisting inside her mind. He shook her slightly. “I’ll be good to you. There is nothing left for you in Ireland. You will find happiness in Wales.”

  Nell wet her lips. “I cannot marry you, Robert. I cannot marry anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  She took a deep breath. “I am handfasted to Donal O’Flaherty. I carry his child.”

  “Why did you leave him?”

  “Gerald needed me.”

  The tightness eased around Robert’s heart. “You left O’Flaherty for Gerald. For Gerald’s sake, come with me.”

  Her voice was the merest whisper of sand across paper. “What of my babe?”

  “The child will be raised as my own.”

  Nell smiled faintly. “Perhaps, if the child is a girl, but a boy—” She shook her head. “You cannot possibly accept another man’s son as your heir.”