Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  He grinned. “Without you, I would have no heirs at all.”

  His smile was infectious. She returned it with one of her own. “Surely you would marry someone.”

  Robert looked down at the bewitching loveliness of her face and wondered if he would ever spare another woman a second glance. “Unless you have me, lass, I will not be anyone’s husband for a goodly length of time.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you before, I am a second son. My brother has healthy heirs. I must make my way in the world with service to my king. I depend upon his appreciation.”

  Gently, she extricated herself from his grip. “Will he extend his appreciation if I marry you, Robert?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  “What of Donal and the Brehon law under which we handfasted? ’Tis my law, Robert. I am a Fitzgerald.”

  “Nell,” he said desperately, “there is no law in Ireland but Tudor law. Marry me. Your brother will live, and your child will have a name and a father. You have no choice.” The words stuck hot and choking in his throat. He was not a man for begging. “Please, Nell,” he managed. “I’ll not touch you unless you invite me.”

  She bit down on her lip. Something wasn’t right. She felt very unlike herself. “Is the land so important to you, Robert?”

  He knelt down and lifted her hand to his lips. “My dearest love, the land no longer has anything to do with it.”

  Twelve

  Donal O’Flaherty crushed the parchment in his hand and threw it into the roaring flames that heated the third-floor living quarters of Aughnanure castle. Damn Desmond Fitzgerald! The mighty Geraldine who wished to rule all of Ireland could not even protect his own.

  “What will you do, Donal?”

  For a long time, the O’Flaherty looked deep into the leaping light of the fire and pondered his kinsman’s question. The young man waited patiently. Finally, Donal turned to speak, and Sean O’Flaherty, related to Donal through the blood of his father, stood rooted to the floor rushes. The O’Flaherty’s anger was not the raging fury of heated words and closed fists, easily lit and quickly spent. It was a physical thing, slow to catch and rise, but when it peaked, it became so fearsome that the younger man shuddered to think it might one day be directed at him.

  Donal was neither loud nor blustering nor profane. His was a quiet, ice-filled rage, colder and far more deadly than those who had led before him. Young as he was, the O’Flaherty chief did not bend easily, nor was he known for his mercy. He was slow to lift his standard in battle, but when he did, those who invaded his lands and stole his cattle paid the ultimate penalty. Sean wondered what price the O’Flaherty would exact from the man who had stolen his woman.

  The frozen fury in his chief’s eyes lifted the young man’s spirits. Surely, now, there would be a fight. Months had passed since the O’Flahertys had taken up arms. The men chafed under the burdensome yoke of inactivity. A steady sword arm required a turn now and then with a true enemy. Sean’s smile brightened as he waited for his chief’s answer.

  “We shall host a party,” the O’Flaherty said slowly. “Every Irish lord and chief will be invited.”

  Sean’s disappointment was almost comical. The O’Flaherty laughed and clapped his young cousin on the shoulder. “Come now, Sean, a good cruinniú will please everyone, even those anxious for war.”

  “Will there be women?”

  “Not this time, lad.”

  A sigh escaped Sean’s lips. “When will the gathering take place?”

  Donal paused to think. A week to send the missives. Another to prepare and yet another to travel. “Thirty days,” he said slowly. “We shall arrange the gathering to take place in thirty days.”

  One month later, the cooks of Aughnanure swore and fretted as they stumbled over castle dogs gnawing on the slippery entrails and discarded bones of wild fowl, spring lamb, and game. Fish wrapped in bark lay smoking on banked coals, while soot-blackened kitchen maids turned giant haunches of venison on carefully sharpened spits. Loaves of oat cakes browned in open hearths, and in the cellars below, casks of wine, uisce beatha, and honeyed mead were rolled out and poured into goblets and flasks lining the trestle tables of the great banquet hall.

  Outside, it was still light with that fey glow that illuminates the western isles long after the rest of Ireland has put aside the day. Inside the hall, stewards heavy with the keys of their hereditary professions ushered guests across the rush-strewn floors to their places at the tables. The vaulted corbel-beamed ceiling of solid oak was bright with the standards of visiting chieftains, the boar of Desmond, the O’Brien lions, the O’Neills’ red oak of Ulster, the stag of the MacCarthys, and, above them all on a giant stave, the golden dragons of the O’Flahertys bidding hospitality to one and all.

  Not by the merest flicker of an eyelash did Donal reveal the intense emotion he felt as he watched his guests assemble in the banquet hall. Chieftains in quilted coats and leather trews, lords of the Pale, brilliant in their colorful doublets, all had come without exception. Even the great O’Neill had stirred himself, as had his hated enemy, Magnus O’Donnell, lord of Tirconnaill. Blood ties and marriage united them all, but most looked upon each other with suspicion, and few called each other friend. Yet they had come, united in their love of independence and their hatred for Henry Tudor. Only once during the height of their power had the Fitzgeralds managed to unite Gaels and Sean Ghalls under one roof.

  Donal stared at the empty benches still to be filled. For two days he had worked to forge an agreement between the men who would fill those seats, if they would indeed fill them. He held his breath, waiting. Moments passed. It would all come to naught if they decided against him. He drew in a slow, controlled breath.

  As if on cue, a tall man in his mid-thirties with long hair curling past his shoulders strode into the room. A murmur rose from the chiefs of the western isles as they recognized Felim O’Connor, descendant of the last high king of Ireland. He was followed by Conor O’Brien of the line of Brian Bora, kings of Munster, and Conn Bachach O’Neill, descendant of the kings of Ulster and the legends of Emain Macha. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited expectantly for the last seat to be filled.

  Myles MacMurrough of Kavanagh, scion of the House of Leicester, walked to his seat, head held high, deliberately ignoring the hisses and taunts alluding to the unforgiven treachery of his royal ancestor, whose invitation to the Norman-Anglo lords led to the invasion of Ireland in the twelfth century.

  Donal released his breath and crossed the room to take his seat under two hundred curious eyes. A wild cheer erupted in the hall. He smiled and lifted his goblet to signify the beginning of the feast.

  Wooden trenchers of boiled meat and fowl were carried to the tables. Goblets were filled and filled again with foaming ale and spiced wine. Huge chunks of bread were torn from steaming loaves, a sop for fragrant meat juices rich with the fat so necessary for survival through frozen Irish winters. Later, after the trenchers were removed, potent uisce beatha was passed around, and eyes glazed over as the fiery brew burned its path to sated stomachs.

  Donal ate sparingly and drank even less. His eyes moved over the assembled chieftains, waiting and watching as the alcohol-induced voices grew ever louder and higher. Finally, he waved his hand, and the chief steward pounded on the wooden dais three times with his bata. Donal stood, and a hush filled the room.

  In the leaping shadows, the torches threw arcs of light against the lime-washed walls, picking out the high bones of the young chief’s face, shadowing the hollows, emphasizing dark and light, hair and eyes, skin and bones, angles and planes. He stood above them, well over normal height, muscles flame-lit and defined, hair like night, sculpted cheeks, eyes the strange glittering orbs bearing their Talesian mark. When he spoke, his words held them spellbound as he spun around them the magic of his lineage, the lineage of Merlin and his lady of
the lake.

  “Gaels and Sean Ghalls, Irish men, I bid you welcome.” He looked around the room, pulling them with the hypnotic, rain-swept power of his gaze. “You have come together for a mighty cause. Geraldine blood has washed the streets of London, and still the Tudor king is not satisfied. He holds Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare, son and heir of Gerald Og, and his sister, the Lady Eleanor, hostage at Whitehall. The boy will not be allowed to live.”

  His eyes shone silver in the torchlight. He fixed his glance on the chieftain of each house, plying them with the beauty of his voice. “Today the House of Kildare will be wiped from the face of Ireland. Tomorrow the O’Donnells may fall, or the O’Malleys or the McCarthys. Before another season passes, I leave for England. When I return, it will be with the Geraldines.”

  At last he came to it, the reason for which he’d summoned these men over hundreds of miles of forest and bogland. “Henry’s army will follow me. What say you, my lords? Do you stand with me? Will you fight the English scourge and keep Ireland for the Irish?”

  His words reminded the Gaelic chieftains of the bitter taste of Irish subservience, a position they had assumed three hundred years before with the Anglo-Norman invasions. To the lords of the Pale whose allegiance to the English Crown was as ingrained as that of the Irish to their high kings, it was a clear case of treason. But they were no match for the fire that burned like a heavenly flame within the young messiah who appealed so earnestly to them. Every eye was upon him, every heart stirred by his outrageous request. He asked them to forsake their security, to lift up their swords, to defy the king of England for a boy’s right to live.

  Unbelievably, O’Neill of Tyrone stood and deliberately placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I stand with you, O’Flaherty,” he said loudly.

  Magnus O’Donnell, O’Neill’s hereditary enemy, rose. “I, too, stand beside you,” he said.

  A collective gasp swept over the room. Not since the betrayal of the O’Donnells by the O’Neills three hundred years before had the two clans ever sided with each other on matters of politics.

  One by one, like wooden ninepins, the chieftains stood and raised their goblets in salute to the silent figure on the dais. The lords gazed at one another furtively. The proposal was a radical one. To break ties with England meant war to the death. Only the Kildares had been strong enough to organize such a feat. Finally, William Burke, lord of Galway, stood and pledged his sword. He was followed by Lords Dunsany, Carlisle, Fielding, and Gray. MacWilliam of Mayo spoke reasonably. In the thick speech of the western isles, he asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Under whose banner will we fight?”

  A smile so brief it was the merest flicker of muscle appeared on Donal O’Flaherty’s lips. “Kildare’s.”

  It was the answer they waited for. Every man still seated rose in unison. The habits of a lifetime were strong and loyalty to their ruling house overcame the last lingering remnants of doubt. Passion replaced caution, and “Crom aboo!” the ancient war cry of the Kildares, erupted from every throat. The Geraldine League was born.

  ***

  Donal pulled his cloak over his face and walked close beside a donkey cart filled with hay. The guard at the city gates allowed him to pass through without question. Inside the walls, he made his way through the twisting streets to the front of the royal palace, where the poor begged for alms.

  It was customary for the ladies at court to offer the leavings from their banquet tables at noon and again in the evening. Huddled beneath his cloak, Donal waited for three days before he heard the gossip he’d crossed an ocean to hear. Gerald was in Wales, the ward of Robert Montgomery of Cilcerrig and his wife, Eleanor Fitzgerald of Kildare.

  ***

  There was something different about her. Robert couldn’t put his finger on it. It was more than a natural preoccupation with the child she carried within her. She appeared unusually interested in the most ordinary of matters, the making of perfume, the fermenting of grain, the weaving of rushes, as if she were seeing everything with new eyes. Sometimes she was as he remembered her, a lord’s daughter, filled with the grace and dignity of her position. And then there were moments when she was something else entirely, a combination of fire and ice, irreverence and compassion, sharp-tongued, blistering, combining an astute intelligence with a witty sense of the absurd. He had never met a woman like her.

  Nell settled into the well-appointed castle as if she were born to it, supervising the servants, planning the meals, embroidering linens, arranging entertainment, caring for Gerald, and gracing Robert’s table. She was everywhere at once, in the kitchens, the banquet halls, the library, her sitting room, the laundry, the smokehouse, everywhere except his bedchamber.

  Robert had exhausted his list of duties. Under his guidance, walls were built, stores replenished, and guards trained, fields were tilled and crops planted. He had supervised the purchasing of horseflesh for the stables and ridden the boundaries of the estate, meeting for the first time those tenants who depended upon him for their survival. For the past week he had done nothing more promising than dicing and drinking in the great hall with his men, chafing at his inactivity.

  Nell’s changing moods unsettled him, as did the tightness in his belly and the empty space in his bed. He had given his word not to touch her, and he would keep to it unless she gave him reason to believe that she wanted what he did. Robert prided himself on his patience. Perhaps after the child was born, she would be more receptive. Meanwhile, there was the evening meal ahead, and Nell had promised to dine with him.

  She came to the table dressed in a flowing white garment that concealed the bulk of her pregnancy. Her hair was loose and hung to her knees, heavy and gleaming like a sheaf of wheat after a spring rain. She said little as she stabbed an oyster with her knife and lifted it to her mouth, but she smiled as sweetly as any adoring bride when her eyes inadvertently met his. His throat locked, and immediately he choked. Reaching for his wine goblet, he drained it dry, clearing the obstruction and breathed deeply.

  The frown between Nell’s brows disappeared. “Have a care, Robert. You are very dear to us.”

  His hand clenched around his bread knife. “Am I, Nell?”

  “Of course.” Her eyes were wide and innocent and filled with concern. “How could you think otherwise?”

  He tore at the bread until it was a mess of crumbs in his trencher. To speak from his heart would ruin the ease between them. But if he did not, he doomed himself to a lifetime of frustration. “I know that you are fond of me,” he mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes.

  “You saved Gerald’s life, Robert. I am more than fond of you.”

  Hope filled his heart. He looked up. “Truly, Nell. Have you come to care for me?”

  She smiled, and he felt as if she’d touched him.

  “You are a dear man, Robert Montgomery. I will always care for you.”

  He searched her face, lovely and gold-touched in the firelight. Her lips were smiling and parted in invitation. Throwing caution to the winds, he stood and walked to where she sat. Then he leaned over and touched his mouth to hers. She did not respond, but neither did she draw away. Encouraged, he rubbed her jaw with his thumb. His voice was hoarse, his emotions raw. “You are so lovely, Nell, and I have waited for so long.”

  “I, too, Robert. But soon the child will be born, and it will be over.”

  His breath caught. He could barely form the words. “Then will you be my wife, Nell?”

  She looked confused. “I am your wife.”

  “In name only.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Could a woman great with child truly be so innocent? “You gave yourself to the O’Flaherty, did you not?” he asked gently.

  Nell was not cowardly. She lifted her chin and looked directly at him. “I did.”

  “Were you willing?”

/>   She bit her lip. “I was.”

  “Then you know what I want.”

  He knew the exact moment she understood. “What if I told you that I cannot lie with you because I still love Donal O’Flaherty?”

  His mouth hardened. “Love that is not returned eventually dies.”

  She waited, listening to the pounding of her heart and the hiss of rain on the fire.

  Robert continued. “A corpse cannot love you, Nell. You are my wife. If he comes for you, I must kill him. Any man would do the same. Then I will wait until you are ready to love again.”

  Something flickered and disappeared behind her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was clear and calm and completely devoid of expression. “May I have until the child is born?”

  “I love you, Nell. I would never force you.”

  She nodded and pushed her chair away from the table. “Pardon me, my lord. I am very tired.”

  Robert nodded. She had never before asked permission to retire. “As you wish, Nell. Good night.”

  Hours later, unable to sleep, Nell rolled over, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and stared through the darkness at the outline of her window. She rubbed her lower back and groaned. It was past time for the child to be born, and until he was, sleep, comfortable sleep, where a body could fold effortlessly into a number of preferred positions, was a longed-for luxury. Nell looked at her left wrist, frowned, and rubbed it. She’d done that before, always in the dark for no particular reason, eyes squinting at the space between her hand and her arm as if she expected to find something.

  She sat up, pushed the covers away, and walked to the fireplace. It was cold but not so cold as Ireland. With the poker, she stirred the embers into a small but steady flame and pulled up a chair to its meager warmth. Tucking her legs beneath the weight of her stomach, she thought. The moment she dreaded had finally come. Robert was her husband, and he wanted what any husband would have demanded long before. For months, he had been most patient, sharing everything that was his, asking nothing in return, until tonight. Even then, he had played the gentleman, asking, not demanding. She could do much worse. It was not so very hard a thing to do, to lie with a man. She had done so before, even though the details of her coupling with Donal were hazy, as if they had happened years instead of months ago.