The Irish Princess (43 page)
Read The Irish Princess Online
Authors: Karen Harper
Tags: #Ireland, #Clinton, #Historical, #Henry, #Edward Fiennes De, #General, #Literary, #Great Britain - History - Henry VIII, #Great Britain, #Elizabeth Fiennes De, #Historical Fiction, #Princesses, #Fiction, #1509-1547, #Princesses - Ireland, #Elizabeth
“But what?” she prompted.
“I’m far too plainspoken, Your Grace, but you do know he is wed?”
“Something else arranged by his father, that is all.”
I also recalled that the Dudley men had joked about marriages being put aside, about divorces. Before I could say worse, I blurted, “I heard he wed her against his father’s wishes because it was a love match.”
“See—you know nothing of it,” she clipped out. “It is not at all like the thing with Seymour.”
“I guess I’d trust the likes of shifty Seymour before I’d fall for a son of John Dudley!”
I could see her only from nose to eyebrows through the grate in her door, but I could tell I’d overstepped. “So, are you saying the sire ruins the son? Not true, Gera, else I’d have an Irish washerwoman I know blamed for being the child of a traitor, and I would never do that.”
“You’d best not, for my father was not a traitor, just judged and executed as one by your father!”
“You’ll not lecture me. I—”
We heard sharp whistling down the corridor. Was someone close enough to overhear us? I had learned that sounds echoed strangely in these labyrinthine corridors. Without another word, I hefted my bucket and moved away, down the stairs and back out into the streets to the livery stable where I’d left my horse. I was saddened that the Tudor temper and the Irish temper had tangled.
I must admit that such disputes between us have happened many a time since over the years, so severely that once, when the throne was finally hers, I was actually committed to the Tower for “plain-speaking to the queen,” though she sent to have me released the very next day. We made up over wine, stuffing ourselves with comfits, and even danced a jig together, our privy jest for when we were alone. Yes, we were friends many years, but too much alike and, especially after Kat Ashley died, Elizabeth of England could brook no woman who gave her bold advice, had a dashing husband—and was a red-haired beauty too.
England’s people began to call their queen Bloody Mary for her religious persecutions and the fact that she and her Spanish husband, Prince Philip, spent much English blood on Philip’s war against France, one that my husband was forced to help fight and came out of quite the hero. But through all the things I detested Mary for, there is something for which I praised her. She permitted Gerald and Mabel, now the Earl and Countess of Kildare, to return to Ireland in the autumn of 1555. I was distraught to see them sail away without me, especially since Magheen and Collum went too, planning to live the rest of their years there. Gerald took with him the precious
Red Book of Kildare
, for the lists of loyalists and properties within would serve him well.
Red Book of Kildare
, for the lists of loyalists and properties within would serve him well.
Edward, home on a brief leave, put his arm around me as we waved their ship out of London harbor and out of sight. “I swear to you, we will go too, as soon as we can manage,” he promised.
I wiped my tears and sighed. “I’ve been saying and praying that for over twenty years now, but it may never be. I vow, but the queen means to keep me a hostage here for Gerald’s good behavior. I must see Kildare and Maynooth again! Gerald and Mabel will need material goods and funding to rebuild and refurbish there, and I could help with that.”
“Patience, Gera. After the queen bears this child she carries, she will be so happy she will let you go and me with you.”
But there was no child for the queen. Twice she suffered false pregnancies as her health plummeted. Prince Philip, by then King of Spain at his father’s death, left and returned, then left again—for good. Mary’s heart as well as her health was broken, for she adored him.
During the rest of Queen Mary’s reign, Elizabeth and I corresponded again, for we had long patched up our quarrel in the Tower.
How dare a mere prisoner in the Tower argue with a visiting washerwoman?
—she had recently written from her refuge at Hatfield House in the country.
How dare a mere prisoner in the Tower argue with a visiting washerwoman?
—she had recently written from her refuge at Hatfield House in the country.
When Mabel and Gerald had been gone two years, he sent Mabel back to court to ask the queen for funds to help rebuild his lands and power base, but Mary was heeding no one then. Ill, morose over Philip’s desertion, shamed by her two false pregnancies and the loss of Calais in France, the last European foothold the English had held for years, Mary was in no mood to help the Geraldines or the Irish. But I had not given up on returning my family to leadership there, so we could help our poor people who had been ridden roughshod over. Gerald and the Irish needed not only funds but hope for the future. With no help from Queen Mary, and with Gerald’s weak position, I would have to find a way.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH
April 1559
T
he queen was dead, and this time, “Long live the queen!” Elizabeth of England, my friend, took the Tudor throne when Mary died of stomach tumors in November of 1558. Edward was again Lord High Admiral, and I became one of the twenty-five-year-old queen’s ladies. But still I was passionate above all else to return to Ireland, at least for a visit, for things were difficult there. In the void left by the Fitzgerald absence, other families had taken over some of our lands, people, and power.
he queen was dead, and this time, “Long live the queen!” Elizabeth of England, my friend, took the Tudor throne when Mary died of stomach tumors in November of 1558. Edward was again Lord High Admiral, and I became one of the twenty-five-year-old queen’s ladies. But still I was passionate above all else to return to Ireland, at least for a visit, for things were difficult there. In the void left by the Fitzgerald absence, other families had taken over some of our lands, people, and power.
At last, I saw the way to help not only Elizabeth but also the Fitzgeralds. Queen Mary’s former, elderly Lord High Admiral, Lord Effingham, had not had the experience nor the stamina to chase pirates from our coasts, but Edward and his captains did. The only problem was that he was stretched too thin, building up the queen’s navy, which had been greatly ignored since King Henry’s death and which might be needed if the Spanish came calling. Meanwhile, the tricky French had to be kept appeased and literally at bay.
So one time when my lord was at sea, along the Scottish coast aboard a new ship, and when one particular pirate dared to defy the queen’s and Privy Council’s orders to cease and desist taking French ships as personal prizes, I went down to the royal docks at Wapping to speak with Mason Haverhill, who had been ill but was now much recovered. He was aboard the
Defiance
, which, despite being overhauled and patched up, was beginning to show her age, but then, weren’t we all?
Defiance
, which, despite being overhauled and patched up, was beginning to show her age, but then, weren’t we all?
“You don’t mean it!” he cried when I told him my plan and presented him with the piece of parchment signed by Elizabeth R. herself, and a second paper granting me permission to use the admiral’s old ship—the latter missive I must admit I had cobbled together myself from another document Edward had signed. Before I could answer, Master Haverhill added, “Forgive me, milady, but I almost forgot whom I was speaking to. Of course you mean it.”
“As the Lord High Admiral’s wife?”
“Ah, no, I mean I almost forgot I was talking to the Irish Geraldine, who has done so much for the Tudor queens and ruler of Kildare County from afar, so the admiral says.”
“Does he now? Then let’s put out early on the morrow—and, if you don’t mind moving your things out of the captain’s cabin for me . . . The
Defiance
is still seaworthy, is she not?”
Defiance
is still seaworthy, is she not?”
“Oh, aye, milady. Seaworthy and ready as ever, only you’re not meaning to commandeer her like a pirate yourself and steer her home to Ireland, are you?”
“No, Master Haverhill, not yet, at least. I suppose my husband warned you of that.”
He shrugged and grinned crookedly. He’d lost weight in his illness, but his ruddy color was returning from when I’d seen him last at our London house when he had come for dinner. He actually saluted as I turned and started down the gangplank, for I had much to do—for my husband and for Ireland.
I knew a screaming scandal would ensue when word reached my enemies at court about my plan—perfectly legal—to use what was called the Lord High Admiral’s prerogative, that is, his power to catch and claim for himself any pirate’s prize. I kept telling myself that Edward was stretched too thin trying to catch pirate ships, so he could use my help. And the queen was especially bent on stopping Englishman Martin Frobisher, whose attacks on French ships were playing havoc with Her Majesty’s attempts to maintain peace with France. Years later, Elizabeth ignored and abetted English privateering vessels that harassed our Spanish enemies, but the time was ripe for what I dared. The only problem would be dealing with my husband, a fact I did not share with Master Haverhill, for Edward would be no doubt livid I had done this without his express permission and risked my limb and life to do so.
I wore no hairpins, proper hood, or pretty female cowl today. My long russet hair streamed free like a Fitzgerald battle banner. Despite how it shocked Haverhill and the crew, I had donned men’s hose and trunks for climbing the ship’s rail and had thrust a matchlock pistol in my belt. This particular pirate had given Elizabeth fits for months, so she had actually signed the paper I had shown Haverhill. Despite our spats, we mutually admired each other. She knew I was up to the task.
The
Defiance
bucked the channel wind and tidal current as we patrolled the coast prowling for our prey, the pirate Martin Frobisher, who was out for nothing but his own profit, and at great cost to the queen’s reputation, as if she could not control her own seamen. He had caused lawsuits and diplomatic chaos, though, God knows, no love was lost between England and France any more than between England and Spain. But the queen wanted peace with France, so I was hoping, so to speak, to kill two birds with one stone: please the queen and help gather funding for my family in Ireland.
Defiance
bucked the channel wind and tidal current as we patrolled the coast prowling for our prey, the pirate Martin Frobisher, who was out for nothing but his own profit, and at great cost to the queen’s reputation, as if she could not control her own seamen. He had caused lawsuits and diplomatic chaos, though, God knows, no love was lost between England and France any more than between England and Spain. But the queen wanted peace with France, so I was hoping, so to speak, to kill two birds with one stone: please the queen and help gather funding for my family in Ireland.
“Milady, you needn’t stand out in the elements,” Haverhill called to me as I stood amidships, peering into the devil-black dawn. I could barely make him out near the beakhead as the ship lumbered up and down. “I can summon you from the cap’n’s cabin if we espy them,” he assured me. “Our intelligence on Frobisher’s movements may be wrong. The sea spray will turn you to a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife.”
That comparison perversely amused me, because she had been punished for looking back. I wanted to look not only back but forward to Ireland, and Edward had promised more than once that we would go there. If I could pull this off without getting his ship—or his wife—damaged or destroyed, he would have to plead with the queen to let us go for a visit, because Elizabeth would owe me a favor—again.
“Would the Lord High Admiral be huddled in his cabin now?” I scolded Haverhill, ruing my sharp tone the moment the words were out of my mouth.
“Point taken. Aye-aye, milady!” he replied crisply, and turned away with his spyglass again, though it must do him little good in the low-lying pall of fog.
Despite the rocking deck, I stood steadily, legs spread like a man, but with a knot in my stomach at what I dared. Overhead the sails strained, pregnant with the wind. The rigging thrummed a dissonant sound, like phantom Irish harpers tuning their strings.
The heady feel of command coursed through me, for at last, whatever my duty to others, I finally steered the helm of my life. Surely, naught worse than what I’d survived could happen to me now.
“There, port side, Master Haverhill!” one of the sailors aloft shouted. “Could be Frobisher’s privateer! Ay, the
Gerfalcon
, the
Gerfalcon
for a certain!”
Gerfalcon
, the
Gerfalcon
for a certain!”
As I turned to squint through the thinning fog, the ship’s name echoed in my head. I heard again the Fitzgerald battle cry the day my people fought for their very lives, for Ireland’s freedom: “
A Geraldine! A Geraldine!
”
A Geraldine! A Geraldine!
”
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