Margaret’s lips thinned. “Nell does not inspire the same passions in me that she does in you. Let me remind you, dear brother-in-law, that ’tis most unlikely that Nell was abducted unwillingly. Cilcerrig is a large castle with many rooms and servants. The O’Flaherty could not possibly drag a trussed and struggling woman down the halls, out the door, and through locked gates. Think, Robert. Nell was betrothed to Donal O’Flaherty. She believed herself to be in love with him.”
“She is my wife,” Montgomery said through his teeth. “Whatever promises were made before we wed no longer apply.”
Margaret picked up a sweetmeat and nibbled it daintily. “I was merely suggesting that Nell is still infatuated with her former betrothed.” She selected a shiny red apple and pretended to study it. “’Tis an odd thing for a new mother, is it not, to keep a man’s firstborn from him?”
Robert’s feet stilled. Margaret of Ormond had a reputation for cleverness. But could any woman, or man for that matter, be clever enough to know the truth about the babe? Someone from Cilcerrig must have revealed that he and Nell did not live together as husband and wife. His jaw locked. He would lash the skin from the backs of every servant on his estate.
Margaret threw back her head and laughed like a man. In truth, even though she was lovely to look at, with deep blue eyes and hair the same silvery color as Nell’s, the countess was not the least bit feminine. Her stride was masculine, and there was a hardness to her expression and a calculating twist to her lips that reminded Robert of a predatory wolf.
“Fear not, Robert,” she said as if she could read his very mind. “Your servants are true. ’Tis merely my knowledge of Nell that brings on my suspicions. She was never one to give her heart lightly, and you, my dear Robert, are very much the gentleman. I imagine my younger sister has persuaded you to postpone your wedding night. Am I correct?”
“No,” Robert lied. “The child is mine.”
Her voice hardened and grew cold. “Look at me, Robert Montgomery.”
He turned and gazed into her eyes. It was rumored that she carried the sight of her Celtic mother and the curse of Emain Mocha in her blood.
“I have destroyed more important houses and men than yours. Do not lie to me.”
Robert swallowed. “Why do you hate her so much?”
“Who?”
“Nell, of course.”
Margaret shook her head. “I have no feelings at all for Nell. She is too insignificant to hate. ’Tis Gerald, the runt of the Kildares, who must be destroyed.”
“He is your flesh and blood, your only living brother.”
She looked amused. “Who do you think began the destruction of the Kildares?”
“You?” He managed to form the word.
“Very good, Robert. A word here, an innuendo in the ear of the king. First my father fell, and then my uncles, and finally Silken Thomas. Gerald is the only one left. Then my revenge will be complete. Nell is only a woman. She is unimportant.”
“As are you, my lady.”
Margaret stared somewhere over his shoulder. “You know nothing of it, Robert Montgomery. I was not raised a woman. For that, my family shall pay dearly.”
He remembered that her son had been killed five years before by a Geraldine dart, and that she had been given as a young girl to Piers Butler, earl of Ormond, hereditary enemy of the Fitzgeralds. It could not have been an easy thing for a mere lass to wed a man whose treachery was renowned throughout Kildare. Somewhere in the distant past, before the conquest, the Ormonds and Kildares had vied for power in Ireland, and their enmity had continued through the centuries. What cruel twist of fate had convinced Gerald Og, the great Kildare, to sacrifice his oldest daughter?
In Margaret Fitzgerald an acute intelligence had combined with a twisted and sensitive mind. Robert could see that her nature was not an affectionate one. Nell had told him as much when she revealed the tragic story of Margaret’s displacement by her brother and her subsequent marriage to Ormond. What Nell had not known was Margaret’s role in the destruction of the Geraldines.
Robert stared at the coldly beautiful face of Nell’s sister and resolved, when this was over, to keep his family safely in Wales.
Sixteen
Donal O’Flaherty looked down from the knoll where his army was camped on what had once been the lordship of Kildare, the most fertile farmland in all of Ireland. No cattle grazed on the grassland. No villagers or farmers toiled in the fields. There was only blackened wasteland where Henry’s troops had torched the plains. He felt a strange melancholy for this land that wasn’t his. Yesterday seared by fire, tomorrow stained with blood.
Conn Bachach O’Neill, chief of Tyrone, stamped his feet as he approached the young chief. Even among allies, it was wise to announce one’s presence. Although their armies had joined at Castlerea, the two men had found no time to converse privately until this moment. “I wonder if the countess of Ormond derives satisfaction from such a sight?” Tyrone said around the stem of his pipe.
Shrugging, Donal hooked his fingers through his belt. “’Tis said she finds little satisfaction in anything at all.”
“Aye, ’tis the way with Margaret.” They were silent for long, comfortable moments. “How are my cousins?”
“They are well.”
O’Neill hesitated. “’Tis rumored that Nell bore Montgomery a child.”
“The rumors are false.”
“’Tis relieved I am to hear it.” O’Neill did not miss the clenching of the younger man’s hands. “As you well know,” he observed, “Brehon law allows a woman to divorce her husband if he does not please her, but children are another matter.”
Donal’s eyes glittered with a strange, unholy light, and for the first time in many years, Conn Bachach was afraid of a man’s anger. “The child is mine,” said Donal. “Nell and I handfasted before Montgomery abducted her from Desmond. She married him to save Gerald’s life. The marriage was never consummated. He lies if he says otherwise.”
O’Neill nodded. He was more than ready to believe this splendid young man with the powerful shoulders and archangel beauty. Personal matters were uncomfortable for the O’Neill. He was pleased to turn the subject. “Tomorrow, O’Brien and O’Donnell will make up the left flank of the formation. MacMurrough and I have agreed to the right. Your army is the largest. ’Tis seemly that you should lead us into battle.”
“MacWilliam joins with me in the center,” Donal said, agreeing with O’Neill’s strategy. “The earl of Ormond’s gallowglass and ceithearn have joined with Montgomery.”
“Is there word of Henry’s army?”
Donal’s lip curled contemptuously. “His royal highness is busy preparing for yet another bridal. Word has it that he has complete confidence in Montgomery and Ormond.”
The O’Neill’s teeth showed white between the gray-brown of his beard. “So much the better for us.”
“Aye.” Donal did not look pleased. “Our numbers are even and our men canny fighters, but the countess is driven by hate, and Montgomery will not be easily defeated.”
“No battle is easily won.”
“This will be a bloodbath,” replied Donal bitterly, “and when ’tis over, we will have won nothing. Gerald will still be in danger, and there will be those who believe I hold a man’s wife and child hostage at Aughnanure.”
Conn Bachach O’Neill frowned and looked down at his feet. The young O’Flaherty chieftain was in need of encouragement, and O’Neill was not known for his facility with language. He would have repeated the words of his concubine after he told her that Nell had been abducted by young O’Flaherty, but outside the bedchamber such bluntness embarrassed him. Brianne had laughed. Her eyes had softened in the way a woman’s did when she was ready to receive a man, and she told him only a fool would believe the O’Flaherty chief must resort to abducting women. More
likely he would be fending them off with his bata. O’Neill cleared his throat, determined to put his oratory skills to the test. “Why is an Irish chieftain concerned with gossip at the English court?”
“’Tis not the English court that concerns me.”
“If that is so,” said the O’Neill slowly, “you need have no fear. Look around you, lad. All of Ireland is here. Would your army be the size it is if their leaders had no confidence in you? As for Gerald, he will be taken to France. I have been in communication with the old earl’s friend, Robert Walshe, confidant of King François. He will keep the lad safe. From there we will appeal the restoration of his lands and title.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There is little hope, of course, now that Henry has an heir, but who knows what journey fate has marked for young Gerald?”
Donal was still not convinced. “What of Montgomery? He will never give Nell up, not so long as he is alive.”
O’Neill puffed on his pipe. “There can be only one answer to that, lad,” he said softly. “There are few things for which a man deserves to die. Montgomery stole your woman. He has made his choice.”
***
The O’Flaherty watched the English army ride toward them. The red crosses of Saint George emblazoned across white pennants fluttered in the morning breeze. Every English mercenary was covered with metal and carried a bill hook and sword. Hard-eyed, they stared out from behind iron morions worn low over their foreheads. Their clipped beards ran with rain.
Donal waited with the center guard under cover of the trees until the English archers had released their first volley of arrows. Then, shouting “Crom aboo!” the battle cry of the Geraldines, he led his foot soldiers forward.
Up the knoll and into the trees, the English infantry met the Irish, first discharging their spears and then pulling swords from their scabbards. Metal clanged against metal, and within minutes the black grassland was red and slippery with blood. Later, when the initial fighting slowed, the center cavalry of both armies charged forward, and the cries of wounded men and horses rang out above the heavy breathing, the hollow clanging, the thud of claymore against targe.
Donal’s opponent, his face distorted behind his metal morion, was losing ground. He lunged forward, missed, and buried himself to the hilt on the O’Flaherty’s sword. Pushing the lifeless body away, Donal pulled out his blade, wiped it on his trews, and turned to meet his next attacker. The man was already wounded. Feinting to the left, Donal severed an arm and watched dispassionately as the man slipped to the ground, his body crushed under his horse’s hooves.
Once again, he wiped his sword clean, threw back his rain-wet hair, and looked around, quickly assessing the situation. No one was unengaged. Already O’Donnell and O’Neill had closed in on the right and left flanks. Ahead, less than ten men away, under the Ormond standard, Donal recognized Robert Montgomery in heated combat with an Irish foot soldier.
Climbing over bodies, dodging men in the throes of battle and death, he made his way to where Montgomery fended off his attacker. Gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, Donal came up from below, knocking apart the blades. “Leave us!” he shouted to the Irishman. “This man is mine.”
“You!” Montgomery stepped back, his face streaming with rain, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and fury. He lifted his sword. “By God, I’ll kill you where you stand!”
For Donal, this was the battle. This was the reason he’d gathered an army and defied a king. Here, at last, was the man who presumed to claim his woman, to lay his hands on her, to give her his name. Donal lifted his sword. “Come for me, Welshman,” he taunted him softly, “you who dare lift your sights to a Geraldine.”
Robert lunged, but his sword was effortlessly blocked. He parried and aimed straight for Donal’s heart. Again, his sword was easily turned away. Rage lent him courage and speed but not caution. A careless thrust nearly sliced his arm in two. By rights, Donal should have stepped back and allowed him to tie it. But this was not England, and their match was not one between gentlemen. Both men knew this fight would be to the finish.
Donal was no longer aware of the battle waged around him. The cries, the stench of blood, the pounding rain all disappeared. He heard nothing but the sound of his own breath, felt nothing but the pain in his laboring chest, saw nothing but Robert’s distorted face and the blood running down his arm, staining his sleeve, welling up into his hand, dripping off the sword metal. Another minute, and it would be finished. Donal knew himself to be the superior swordsman. Montgomery was skilled, but his reach was too short, and his tendency to thrust and then draw back was both predictable and dangerous.
With a lightning-swift riposte, Donal slid his sword into Robert’s shoulder muscle, knocking the weapon from his hand. Pressing the point of the blade against the downed man’s throat, he spoke. “Make your peace, Welshman. Your God awaits.”
Robert struggled to breathe. “She is my wife,” he panted.
Donal increased his pressure and watched two drops of blood appear on the tip of his sword. “Nell is mine,” he said savagely. “We were handfasted on the journey to Desmond. Against her will, you stole her from me. She married you only to save the life of her brother. ’Tis my child she bore. I know the truth, Welshman. You insult Nell with your lie.”
“I love her,” Robert gasped.
“’Tis a poor sort of love that destroys a woman’s honor.”
Montgomery was bleeding heavily now. “Tell her,” he gasped, “tell her I had no such intention. I meant only to save her life.”
Donal knew it was true. He had learned from Nell’s own lips how Montgomery had saved her life and Gerald’s. Until now, the Welshman’s reputation had done him only credit. Perhaps, if he gave up his claim on her, Donal would allow him his life. “And now,” he asked, “if I choose to spare you? Will you renounce your claim?”
“Have mercy, O’Flaherty. Kill me and be done with it I would rather die here in battle than at the end of the executioner’s block.” He choked, and blood bubbles formed at his mouth.
Removing his sword, Donal knelt by his side and pressed his hand against the pulse still beating in the Welshman’s throat. It fluttered erratically for a moment and then stopped completely. The man was dead. Crossing himself, Donal lifted his face to the rain and uttered two brief prayers, one for the repose of Montgomery’s soul, the other for his own absolution.
***
Nell watched the fog settle like giant spider webs on bare tree branches, where it hung suspended, muffling the sounds of water, the crackling of twigs, and the panting of Donal’s wolfhound stepping carefully beside her. She shivered and pulled her sable-lined cloak tightly about her body. Her months in the south of Wales had spoiled her for Irish weather. Winter would soon be upon them, but despite the bone-chilling cold, Nell eagerly anticipated the isolation and freedom it would bring. She could rest easily. Only the hardiest of Irish gallowglass would attempt to march during winter. No Englishman would dare. Mercenaries, often unpaid for months at a time, were forced to pillage the countryside for food and shelter. They would find none among the Gaels and Sean Ghalls of Ulster.
The dog pushed a woolly head under Nell’s palm. Absentmindedly, she rubbed the animal’s velvety nose. Her thoughts led her in strange directions, back to Maynooth when the Fitzgeralds ruled in Kildare and Munster. Her eyes watered. Shocked at her unexpected emotionalism, she wiped the tears away with two quick swipes and looked around as if she were being observed. Laughing self-consciously, she caught the dog’s head in both her hands and caressed it. The wolfhound wagged her tail and whimpered with appreciation. Then she pulled away, ran back, butted Nell’s hand, and loped into the trees. “Come back, Triane,” Nell called out.
The dog barked, and Nell followed the sound. Soupy and thick, the mist swirled, making it impossible to see more than a foot in any direction, but the hound’s deep bark was clear and close.
Nell followed the sound, arms outstretched, carefully positioning one foot in front of the other. “Triane!” she shouted. “Come back.”
This time, the bark was very near. Missing her step, Nell fell forward, rolling down an incline, soft and springy with decaying leaves. When she stopped, staggered to her feet, and brushed herself clean, the fog and the hound had disappeared. Standing before her was a girl with sun in her hair and eyes the color of light on water. Nell’s eyes widened, and a smile of pure pleasure lit her face. “Jillian.”
Delighted, Jillian laughed. You know me.
“Of course.”
But you didn’t before.
“Everything is quite clear now.”
I’d like to go home, Nell.
“I should imagine so.”
Jillian pushed the hair off her forehead. It fell back again. Can you do it this time?
“Aye.”
Why not before?
“I don’t know,” Nell replied honestly.
It’s been such a long time. Will everything be different, I wonder?
Nell took a deep breath. “I suspect that your life has gone on exactly as before in that future place from where you came. I know that you aren’t real, Jilly. I’m not sure what you are, a spirit perhaps, or a ghost. Whichever it is, you’ve been a great help to me. I had no one else, you see.”
And now?
“Now I am a mother and must learn to stand on my own.”
You won’t be alone, Nell.
Nell held up her hand. “Say nothing more. I no longer have a need to anticipate fate.” She stepped forward and clasped Jillian’s hands. “There is something I must say to you, Jilly. My circumstances were forced upon me suddenly, and my losses over the past two years have been great. I think my heart and mind must have frozen with grief. Without you, it may have gone differently for Gerald and me. I needed you to survive. That is no longer true. Now I know that I will manage whether or not Donal returns.”
Nell Page 19
