Rose of the Mists (36 page)

“‘Foreign wolves,’ indeed, uncle! Are we not ‘foreign wolves’ to the Gaels?”

“We are not! We are
ghalliobh
and proud of it.” Piers leaned forward, his eyes intent upon his nephew. “There’s trouble brewing, lad. Great danger for every Anglo-Irishman among us. We’ve held our lands as good and loyal subjects to the English Crown these last three hundred years. Now that hag of England is ready to throw us over for want of a good swiving. And ’tis Leicester’s prick she wants doing the job!”

Revelin paled. He was no prude, but no one had ever dared speak of the English queen in such terms. “Uncle, you’re angry, and perhaps with cause. But I caution you, that message carried back to the English with your name attached to it would mean arrest for treason and perhaps the block.”

Piers chuckled and shook his head. “You’re Thomas’s lad, I see. Well, and so you should be. ’Twould be only right that Thomas should carve a place in your heart for the love of his life. He had hopes at one time himself.”

He leaned forward again, beckoning Revelin to do likewise.

Whispering, he said, “You’re a man and should know. Have you never wondered why Tom dotes so on his eldest bastard, Piers of Duiske? ’Twas rumored some fifteen summers ago that the virgin queen bore Tom a child. Lad! Don’t look so stricken. ’Twas most likely her belly saved her from a long idleness in the Tower after John Wyatt’s rebellion. She spent not two months in the Tower before being removed to Woodstock, and nary a hair was seen of her for the rest of the year!”

“Does Thomas confirm the story?”

Piers chuckled. “Had he confirmed it, do you think he’d have lived with such a claim on the queen’s honor?”

“But if they loved each other—”

Piers shook his head. “You’ve a lot to learn about loving. It has little to do with the way most men conduct their lives, and even less to do with politics. I’ve me whores and me mistresses. But I married for consequence, as you will.” He winked. “Enjoy your Irish lass. There’ll be none better to comfort you the long days of your life, but I hear you are to marry Lady Alison Burke. Mayhaps you should pursue the matter. The Burkes will be generous with her dowry. You should ask for a portion of their land north of Limerick. The more claim Butlers have to Irish soil, the better our chances of keeping it.”

Revelin let the matter of his marriage rest. “You’ve not yet said why you’re in Dublin.”

“Aye, to that!” Piers drained his cup, looked wistfully at the empty pitcher, then sat back, throwing a leg over his chair arm. “Edmund is refusing to return to Dublin for the next session of Parliament. Sir Henry Sidney is full of schemes and guiles and all manner of treachery. ’Tis he who stands to gain as much as any. If his brother-in-law, Leicester, should win the queen’s hand—God forefend!—then Sidney hopes to gain for himself the Crown of Ireland!”

Revelin stared at his uncle. “Surely that is not possible. There is no Crown of Ireland.”

“Aye, and there was no unloyal Anglo-Irishman, either,
until Sir Sidney began parceling out our lands to land-hungry usurpers like that West Country dog Carew!” Piers spat out several more colorful oaths concerning Carew’s Devonshire heritage.

“We will not have our lands stripped from us in the name of progress. Have the Butlers not held themselves as the queen’s right arm in Ireland? Have we not served England in any rebellion by the Gaels? Aye! We’ve maintained armies and collected tithes and filled the coffers at Whitehall! Now we’re asked to sit idly by while new men despoil and make free with that which is ours.”

“Perhaps you overstate the matter, uncle,” Revelin replied mildly. “Sir Sidney fears the queen’s preference for the earl of Ormond, and Thomas is not a strong earl for lack of reason. He will allow Sidney only a small victory before taking the matter to the queen.”

“Do you believe that? Dupe! Do you know what Sidney has done? He’s dared to cede to Carew a goodly portion of your uncle Edmund’s plowlands in Carlow.”

Something about the twinkle in Piers’s eyes signaled Revelin that that was not the end of his speech. “And Uncle Edmund—what has he done about the matter?”

Piers shrugged. “What any man would. We’ve plagued Carew with a bit of reiving.”

“Hm,” Revelin answered noncommittally. It was a bit of devilry that only an
Irishman
would have chosen.

“Carew’s a fool!” Piers claimed. “Carew sent a letter to Sidney complaining of the Butlers’ rebellion against him! Rebellion? Now I ask you, a reasonable man, is the loss of a few cows a rebellion? Did he think we could not have taken Idrone and all within it if we were of a mind? Hah!”

Revelin laughed, imagining Carew’s consternation. “I do not see the problem. Carew is a sore loser and must learn the ways of the neighborhood. When he comes to view the trading of cattle as an everyday occurrence, he will steal a few of yours and the trade will even out.”

Piers eyed his nephew speculatively. “I’ve scarcely seen you these years you’ve grown to manhood. I must ask myself if you’re your own man or the earl’s foster son.”

Revelin met the dark gaze levelly. “Both.”

“Aye, that’s the spirit. But then are you a Butler first or a fanatic loyalist the likes of Thomas?”

“Thomas is a Butler, first, last, and foremost; you’ll not say else and remain under this roof.” The speech was said softly and without heat, but Revelin saw Piers’s eyes widen in understanding.

Piers stroked his beard and nodded. “Good! By God, that’s damned good! Would that my eldest lad had the fire in him that you possess! So, I’ll tell you the truth. And you’ll use it as best benefits the Butlers. Carew is raising an army, though God knows if he understands what it means to raise an army in this country. He’s buying men but the likes of whom you’ve never seen. They’re flocking into County Carlow like so many carrion birds on the scent of a dying cow. English militia we can crush like the rabble they are. But there’s others, lad. He’s offering bounty and sack to Irish and Scottish
bonaghts!”

“Mercenaries,” Revelin murmured.
Bonaghts
were unlike Turlough’s Scots
gallowglass.
They were the outcasts of clans both Scots and Irish, men without loyalties or masters and feared by every reasonable nobleman be he Irish or English.

“I’d not have them on me land,” Piers continued. “No good will come of Carew’s plans, mark my words. So I’ve come here to tell you to warn Thomas of what happens. There may be a confrontation before the summer’s end, and there’s nary a man can tell where it will end.”

Revelin shook his head. “You can’t seriously be considering fighting Carew. Thomas nearly lost his head for the Battle of Alfane. The queen has forbidden personal battles within her lands.”

“She hasn’t outlawed protecting a man’s own lands! Edmund has it right when he says the Butlers will fight to the death Carew’s trumped-up pretense to our lands. We’re not advocating the overthrow of the Crown in Ireland. There’s a difference, lad.”

“And you would have me explain this to Thomas?”

Piers nodded. “We may have little time before an attack comes. We’ll not provoke, but we’ll run them all the way to Hell once they cross the county line!”

Revelin rubbed his brow in weariness. “I had not planned to return directly to London.”

“The lass.”

Revelin looked up with a brief smile. “Actually, she had caught Sir Sidney’s eye and I’m some disturbed by his intentions.” Piers raised his brows, and Revelin launched into a brief review of Meghan’s history.

“Shane’s natural daughter!” Piers whistled in appreciation. “Of course, you’ll not hand her over to Sidney.”

Revelin shrugged, irritated with his inability to act. “I don’t see that I have any alternative, unless I take her to England with me.”

“You have that right, since you’re the lass’s foster parent.”

Revelin’s laugh was rueful. “She sleeps in my bed at this very minute.” He looked up suddenly, emotion burning in his eyes. “I love her, Piers. I will wed her when and where I can.”

“She’s Catholic, lad. You cannot—”

“You remember,” Revelin said kindly when Piers broke off in mid-sentence, “my mother was Irish and Catholic and your brother married her.”

“My bastard brother married her,” Piers corrected without heat. Both he and Revelin understood that while the Butlers were Protestant in the main, there had never been any persecution of the Catholics among them. “So, all the more reason to keep her from Sidney’s clutches. Send her to Kilkenny Castle. She’ll be safe enough. Edmund and I have brought our families there, while Thomas prefers the ease of London.”

Revelin sat up. “I had thought of that before Sir Sidney’s letter arrived. I could leave for London tomorrow if I knew Meghan was safe.”

“Meghan,” Piers repeated softly. “I once knew a Meghan, hair the color of cornsilk and eyes as deep a green”

“Black hair and eyes as deep a blue…” Revelin answered dryly.

Piers chuckled. “So keep her for yourself. But marry? Ah, lad, I cannot counsel you to that. What of your betrothal?”

“Another reason I’m needed in London,” Revelin replied. “Lady Alison is not one to hold a grudge or to stand in the way of happiness.”

“Even yours?”

Revelin shrugged. “She’ll see nothing of me after this. I’m returning to Ireland and here I shall remain.”

“All the more reason for you to fight for what is ours.” Piers stood. “I’m away. The light of morning is never so lovely within the Pale.”

Revelin rose with him. “But you’ve not rested.”

Piers lifted his eyes to the ceiling once more. “Do you offer your bed?”

“Your horse awaits,” Revelin replied.

Piers’s laughter shattered the quiet. “Send her to Edmund, lad. His lady wife will know how to deal with her.” He clasped Revelin in a bearlike hug. “Give my best to that damned rascal brother of mine and tell him Butler blood should not be spilt for Devonshire dogs. Ah, and the twins, tell him of the twins!”

When Piers had ridden out, Revelin returned to his room. Meghan was stretched out on his bed, wide awake.

“Did we disturb you, lass?” he asked as he walked toward the bed, stripping off his clothes as he went.

Meghan reached out for him as he cast away the last of his clothing and pulled him down hard against her. “Are ye truly going away from me?”

Revelin stared at the midnight-dark eyes just inches from his. “How do you know? Did you listen?—but you don’t speak English.”

“Mrs. Cambra told me,” Meghan answered. “She came in
to make me leave yer bed, and when I wouldn’t, she said I would soon enough because ye’re going to London Town.”

So, the household knew every word they had spoken. Thank the Lord for loyalty.

Revelin lowered his head onto her breast as his hands found her waist and began a slow, sensual rise toward her breasts. “Aye, lass, I must go away for a little while, but when I return I won’t be leaving you again. So…” And he let his hands and lips continue his thoughts.

Chapter Fourteen

London, England: July 1569

“Damnation! A farthing for Leicester’s head!”

“Quietly, lad,” Thomas Butler, the earl of Ormond, counseled his foster son. Seated before the fire of his London town-house study, Thomas had been rereading a letter from Dublin. Seeing Revelin’s mood, he folded the letter and pocketed it. “You’ve remembered little of court life if Leicester’s witless tongue can prick your ire.”

Revelin snatched his velvet hat from his head and tossed it onto a table by the door. “’Twas more than that. As I sat in the antechamber of Whitehall this afternoon, Leicester came over to tell me how delighted he was to learn that Meghan O’Neill is his father-in-law’s guest at Dublin Castle.”

An old hand at handling agitated statesmen, Thomas said merely, “I know.”

Revelin regarded him in surprise. “You know? When did you learn of it? For the last week I’ve thought Meghan safe in Kilkenny. I had left instructions which needed only Uncle
Edward’s letter of consent to put into motion.” His green eyes suddenly blazed dark and stormy. “You, you’ve had a hand in this.”

Thomas shook his head. “The news arrived only after you had left this morning.”

The anger eased in Revelin’s expression. Thomas was not above countermanding Revelin’s orders, but if he had he would tell him so. “What am I to do? The lass is behind the walls of a fortress. Guest of the lord deputy, indeed! She must be frightened out of her wits. God knows what questions Sir Henry will put to her. She’s not clever in the ordinary sense. She could easily be tricked into saying she’s a spy for O’Neill or a rebel or heaven knows what! Leicester let drop in parting that the lord deputy of Ireland is most concerned about what he called the likelihood of a Butler Rebellion.”

Thomas stroked his black beard. “A Butler Rebellion! It has a ring to it!
Buitiler a buadh
!”
he cried in his deep voice until the room reverberated with the Butler war chant.

Revelin collapsed into a chair beside his uncle, straining to keep a smile from his face. “You can jest when the queen herself lends an ear to these lies?”

Thomas’s dark eyes narrowed on Revelin as he considered his next words. “You are young, Revelin, and your blood stirs easily. When you have my nine and thirty years, you will better understand that often the best reply is none at all.”