The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (28 page)

“I told you what I told Captain Maltby—” “Wait! If you wish to explain yourself by claiming the submission to Henry Sidney as your husband’s alone, I’ll have none of it.” Elizabeth’s tone was suddenly brusque, and she regained her regal posture. “Clearly you meant Lord Sidney to believe your loyalty as well, and clearly you broke your promise. I believe you would do
anything
to save the life of your son.”

“I wouldn’t deny it. But I swear to you now, give me what I request and I will become your true and dedicated servant. I’ll fight your battles on land and sea . . . against all of the world, Your Majesty. I give you my word.”

They were locked into each other’s eyes, each taking the truest measure of the other.

Finally Grace spoke. “Look at us. Two old birds fightin’ for the same feckin’ worm.” She sighed. “These are strange times we live in.”

“Strange times . . . ,” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off and she gazed away absently. “Take your leave now, Grace. My Lord Essex will escort you back to your ship. You shall have your answer by sundown today.” Grace rose from her chair and Elizabeth too came to her feet.

“I thought your arse would be sore by now,” said Grace.

“It is a bit.”

“You have to be careful when you ask the Irish to tell you a story.” 

’TIS ESSEX!” A sharp cry rang out from the crowd now emerg-ing from the Southwark Theatre, the throng made even louder and more unruly by the raucous performance it had just enjoyed of Will Shakespeare ’s
The Taming of the Shrew
.

“Ho! Lord Robert!” This voice was decidedly a drunken roar, and the friends surrounding Essex—Southampton and the Bacon brothers—

instinctively drew in closer about him.

But it was too late.

“ ’Tis he!”

“Essex! Essex!”

Their hero raised his arm in a fisted salute and smiled broadly.

“Don’t encourage them, Robert,” Francis Bacon whispered in Essex’s ear.

“They’re harmless,” he answered. “And what choice have we? We ’re surrounded.”

Indeed, the rabble was moving on all sides of them now and hands began darting in toward Essex’s person, tugging at the fabric of his doublet, fingers attempting to pluck off a button or length of braid. With a high whoop a young boy perched atop his father’s shoulders swiped the feathered cap off Essex’s head.

“Here now!” Southampton cried, outraged, trying to retrieve the hat, but the boy had jumped to the ground and disappeared into the throng.

“You’ll have me as naked as the day I was born!” was Essex’s good-natured retort. The crowd, delighted, broke into laughter and familiar banter with their favorite nobleman.

“How’s the queen?” one wanted to know.

“Sharp as a pin and twice as narrow!” Essex cried back.

More laughter rumbled around them.

“Go back to Spain, why don’tcha, and pluck out King Philip’s eyes!” came another voice.

“You who said that,” Essex called out, “come to Greenwich Castle with me and
you
convince the queen to send me, for I haven’t had any luck myself !” As an aside to Southampton he whispered, “There ’s Will.

Grab him and meet us at the dock.”

Finally extricating themselves from the mob, Essex and the Bacons made it down to the Southwark quay where Henry Cuffe beckoned them onto the dinghy that, with the bribe of a fat purse, he ’d secured for the group. Southampton and Master Shakespeare were last to board before they shoved off. As they lost themselves in the dark, thick river fog, lit by only a single lamp, they relaxed and began an amiable chatter.

“Tell us, Will, was your Katerina fashioned after Lady Essex?”

“How you speak of my mother!” cried Robert Devereaux, feigning indignation at Southampton’s jibe. “We should deserve our ‘nest of vipers’ for comments such as that.”

“Really, I must know.” Southampton grasped the playwright’s arm and peered at him in the lamplight. “Was it Lettice who inspired your shrew?”

“He ’s on the spot now,” said Henry Cuffe.

“No matter how cuntish the woman,” Francis Bacon offered, “a man’s mother is sacrosanct.”

“Apparently not
my
mother,” said Essex. “Will, I forbid you to answer.”

“
I’d
like to hear his answer!” came a rough voice from the dark, at the dinghy’s bow. When the men realized it was the Cheapside oarsman who’d spoken, they all roared laughing.

“Look,” cried Cuffe, “the Gnome and Mrs Blabby.” This was a fortuitous diversion and an escape for Will Shakespeare, for they all turned to see Robert Cecil and his wife, Margaret, being rowed to the north shore not twenty yards away. Mrs Cecil was infamous for her long, excruciatingly boring monologues.

“I saw them come into the queen’s box,” said Essex. “Late.”

“Always at the queen’s business,” Francis observed, a begrudging compliment to Robert Cecil.

“Ho, Robert, Margaret!” Essex waved at the couple. Cecil returned the greeting with a pinched smile and a reserved wave at the boatload of his least favorite of Elizabeth’s courtiers.

“He ’s an avid theatergoer,” Shakespeare offered. “He ’s never missed one of my plays.”

“A new patron for Will!” cried a teasing Southampton. “I am off the hook. Tell us, Robert, is the Gnome planning to wrest his father’s position from the old man before he ’s even dead?” But Essex was elsewhere occupied. His eyes were fixed on the large vessel that had for the moment halted the crosswise traffic on the Thames as it moved downriver with the tide. It was Murrough ne Doe ’s galley starting its voyage back to Ireland, he realized. He knew the ship well by now, having come and gone several times in recent days, in his latest visit bearing two documents from the queen to Grace O’Malley. Though she was nowhere visible, Grace was surely aboard.

“Robert.”

“What?”

“Have you gone deaf?”

“No, no . . . I . . .” His words trailed off as he watched the ship disappear into the darkness and fog. He ’d still not recovered his senses as they reached the water stairs on the north bank, but his friends, used to the young earl’s sudden bouts of moodiness, went on with their idle chatter unperturbed.

It wasn’t until they’d been seated at their regular table at the Mermaid Tavern—Essex wholly oblivious to the raucous greeting given London’s most beloved nobleman—that he regained the present moment. The tavern was crowded and noisy, and a bluish smoke hung round their heads. Tobacco from America was all the rage, and nearly every man in the place puffed a pipe of it. His friends were involved in a heated debate.

“. . . right where that great ox of a man is standing,” said Cuffe.

“I was here that night, Henry,” Southampton insisted, “and I witnessed the brawl. I
saw
where Marlowe fell. Were you here that night, Will?”

“No,” the playwright answered, subdued and miserable. “I wish I had been.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him dying.” Southampton placed a comforting hand on Shakespeare ’s arm.

“He might have been embroiled with
me
in an argument, and not the ruffians who—”

“ ’Twas his destiny to die,” said Essex, startling them all with his sudden return to the conversation. “Think you,” he continued, his eyes unfocused, dreamy, “that ’tis Ireland ’s destiny to be conquered?”

“Ireland?” Henry Cuffe exclaimed, thrown off entirely by the sudden change in subject.

Francis Bacon, aware of the Irish rebel woman at Court, as the others were perhaps not, obliged his master’s turn of thought. “There ’s no doubt the colonization will continue despite the difficulties. ‘The last of Europe ’s daughters,’ ” he went on with a more theatrical flourish than he was normally wont to employ, ‘is waiting to be reclaimed from desola-tion, from savage and barbarous customs, to humanity and civilization.’ ”

“Are
we
not savage in our treatment of the Irish?” Essex demanded.

“We give what we get,” Southampton answered. “Spencer was there, forced to fortify his house in Munster against the wildmen, behind high walls and locked gates.” He lifted his eyes, remembering the poet’s famous verse.

. . . with outrageous cry

a thousand villiens round about them swarmed
out of the rocks and caves ajoining nye;
Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed,
All threatening death, all in strange manner armed;
Some with unwieldy clubs, some with long spears,
Some rusty knives, some staves in fire warmed.

“Sounds exactly like last month’s tilt at Nonesuch,” said Cuffe. “Men dressed as ‘Wild Irish’ staged a mock fight for the queen. Their matted hair all down round their faces, saffron tunics, furred cloaks, battle-axes and terrible screams. ’Twas frightening, I tell you, even though we knew it was arranged.”

“Henry Sidney—and who knows better than he?—believes the Irish
wish
for direct rule,” Bacon insisted. “The gentlemen of Cork are begging for it, he says. ‘With open mouths and hands held up to heaven, crying out for justice.’ ”

“ ’Tis an evil place,” Southampton agreed. “It corrupts and debases everyone who’s sent there to tame it. Men become infected with the ‘Irish Disease.’ You should know that, Robert, your father died there.” He looked closely at Essex. “Surely you’re not thinking—”

“I need a battle.” Essex’s eyes were distant and vaguely haunted.

“Perhaps I
should
go to Ireland.”

“And play right into the Cecils’ hands?” Bacon argued. “They enjoy pushing you into dangerous military campaigns, hoping you’ll be killed or disgrace yourself. Or spend all your money the way you did in France and Portugal.”

“The queen does seem determined to establish our legal system in Ireland,” said Southampton.

“And just as determined to spend as little money as possible to do so,” Bacon added. “I say her meanness is Ireland’s only hope of evading England’s clutches.”

“My Lord Essex.” A new voice, younger and less bold than the others, interrupted. They looked up to see a page, one of Elizabeth’s pretty young men. “The queen wishes your immediate attendance on her.”

“At this hour?” said Essex.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ooh, what have you done now?” Southampton said, teasing.

“I don’t like your chances for a happy occasion,” Francis Bacon agreed.

“He ’s still her favorite, is he not?” Will Shakespeare piped up. “I say she craves the man’s company. And why not? We do.”

“Well said, Will.” Essex clapped the poet on the back, then stood. He pulled at his doublet to straighten it, and Southampton gave his hose a playful tug above the buttocks, receiving a smack on the head for his efforts. Everyone laughed and the earl exited the tavern with his usual grace, amidst good-natured good-byes and happily drunken shouts from the throng of his general admirers.

No one noticed as he departed that his smile was more plastered on than genuine, nor the lines of worry that creased his handsome forehead.

GOOD EVENING, Robin,” she said in a mild tone, and with an expression so even that Essex could determine nothing from it. He had come, where he was bidden, to her bedchamber.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” he replied with more formality than he was normally wont to assume. His bow was low but lacked the flam-boyant flourishes that might be construed as levity. He realized he was barely breathing.

“Come, let us walk,” she said, and taking his arm, went with him to the door.

As they moved into the silent corridor, he stifled the urge to ask why they might be strolling at so late an hour, as they often did in order to see and be seen by the queen’s courtiers and ladies. But there was no one about in Greenwich Castle save the palace guard at several doorways.

“Did you enjoy the play?” Elizabeth inquired. She was still maddeningly noncommittal, neither friendly nor unpleasant.

“Very much. One of the characters was a shrew. You would have enjoyed the comparisons afterward between her and my mother.” Essex thought he perceived the barest hint of a smile cracking Elizabeth’s thin, painted lips, but he was loath to take further liberties.

They had turned a corner in the rambling palace, and now ahead of them stood a pair of double doors, those leading to a long hallway connecting the west to the east wing. He looked to the queen with silent question, but she refused to oblige him with an answer. Instead, with a mysterious expression she moved forward and knocked with her knuckles, twice, on the door.

Slowly, silently they swept open to reveal the corridor. Essex’s eyes widened at the sight before him. It was quite as extraordinary as anything he had ever seen. Both sides were lined with tapers, large and small, upright torches and candelabrum—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, illuminating the hallway into a brilliance that matched sunlight.

He turned to Elizabeth, smiling delightedly in his astonishment. He opened his mouth, but she closed it with a gentle finger to his lips, then tugged at his arm, a signal that they should move forward into the spectacle itself.

It was magic, walking with the queen through the candlelight. He could not help but glance at her, and bathed in the bright warm glow she was as lovely as he had ever known her, the lines on her face erased by the light, white points—like stars—reflected in her dark eyes.

When she spoke, she spoke quietly and carefully, as though to preserve the mystery of the moment. “This is your future as I see it, Robin.

Brilliant. Perfect. Filled with light.”

Essex drew in a long breath and, closing his eyes, released it, relief and joy in equal measures flooding his soul. He knew the queen’s next words even before she spoke them.

“The Farm of Sweet Wines is yours, my lord Essex. You will use it wisely, I expect, and you will cease all further suits for monetary favors from your queen.”

Essex, overcome, fell to his knees at Elizabeth’s feet. “When Your Majesty thinks that Heaven is too good for me,” he whispered, “I will not fall like a star, but be consumed like a vapor by the same sun that drew me up to such a height.”

He felt her touch the top of his head, and he reached up, taking her hands in his. He began to kiss them, again and again, whimpering with small cries of gratitude, inhaling the soft fragrance of the long white fingers, tasting the warm salt of his tears.

THEY HAD DECIDED TO set out before midnight, for though the queen had given Murrough ne Doe a letter of safe conduct, there were fewer chances of a hostile boarding at this hour.

Grace climbed the stairs and felt the thick mist envelop her as she strode out onto the deck and headed for the bow. The ship’s progress was slow, letting the tide take it downriver, but the pace seemed just right to her. Natural. And her heart felt light for the first time in so many years.

The Queen of England had granted all of her requests. Grace had stowed Elizabeth’s letters in the chest above the cabin bed. She would present one to Bingham as soon as she returned home. Or perhaps he would have been relieved of his post before she arrived—as the second letter promised he would be—though that was perhaps too much to hope for. In fact, she would relish the sight of Richard Bingham’s face as he read of Tibbot’s pardon, written in Elizabeth’s own hand, and a directive for him to arrange for Grace ’s pension. There was time enough for his removal. It was hard not to gloat, she thought, smiling in the dark.

Now she felt Murrough ne Doe joining her at the rail. He stood beside her gazing out in wonder at the traffic on the Thames at such an hour.

“So you’re pleased with your visit to London?” he said.

“I am. Very pleased indeed.”

“You’ll have your boy back. Your fleet. And good riddance to Richard Bingham.”

“ ’Tis hard to believe.”

“Will you keep your promise to the queen?” he said.

“Which one?”

Murrough ne Doe laughed. “Grace, there ’s no one like you.”

“I should hope not.”

“Will you keep it?” he insisted.

“My promise to live dutifully as the English queen’s subject, and fight her quarrels with all the world?”

“Yes, that one.”

Grace sighed and peered out onto the river before her, straining to make sense of the darkness. “I’ll keep my promises,” she said, “for as long as Elizabeth keeps hers.”

“Is it likely she will?” he asked.

Grace was silent, recalling the queen’s soft expression of sympathy for her loss of Eric, and the guileless admission of desire to hear the adventures of one more traveled than herself. She had felt fleeting moments of understanding, even kinship with the woman . . . and she had in the end granted Grace her heart’s desires.

Yet she was Elizabeth, Queen of England, chief vanquisher of Ireland. She was strong and cunning enough to have held her throne for thirty-five years.

“Is it likely she ’ll keep her promises to me?” said Grace. “I’m afraid only Jesus knows, my friend. I’m afraid only Jesus knows.” 

He was scrambling effortlessly up the rigging, surefooted and fearless. The wind was stiff, and coming, it seemed, from every direction, but his eight-year-old limbs felt strong and sure, and the crow’s nest was not far above him, though a good twenty feet aft. Sure it was a long way, but so what? He ’d have to jump, that was all there was to it.

“Tibbot, come down from there, you little monkey!” He looked down to see his mother standing on the deck below, legs planted far apart, hands akimbo in that mannish stance of hers.

Her neck was craning up to watch his progress amidst the masts and sails and rope rigging of the
Dorcas
.

“You come down from there this minute!”

Why was she nagging him? he thought petulantly, and why did he detect fear in her voice? She never used to nag him for such antics.

He was her little monkey and she was proud of his agility, his speed and grace.

He crouched, winding tension up in his knees, set his eyes on the empty crow’s nest, and sprang. For a moment he was flying, terror and exhilaration pumping through his veins in equal measure. His fingers caught the lip of the large bucket and he hauled himself up and over.

He was standing tall, gazing out over the whitecapped sea. Standing very tall indeed—too tall for an eight-year-old. Ah, he ’d become a man, had grown up very quickly. But his mother was still standing below, on deck, silent now. ’Twas only her presence that nagged at him. He would ignore her, he thought, then chuckled, as if it were possible to ignore Grace O’Malley.

His sights turned to the coastline. Ireland, the northwest coast—

rocky islands and sand spits, harbors jutting deep inland. He could see that the countryside was scorched, fields bare, forests of skeletal trees, blackened and dead. His throat tightened at the sight, and rage filled him, hatred for the men responsible.
The English
. What had they done to his home, his beautiful home?

But wait, were those voices he was hearing? Yes, women’s voices, and they were singing. Oh, ’twas a lovely melody, soft and sweet, and a harp playing besides. It soothed him, the distant singing, though as the
Dorcas
neared land it was louder, more distinct. There must be a dozen women singing their siren song. Yes, that’s what it was, the siren song from Homer’s story. But then he must take care, mustn’t he? He should. They would lure him to destruction. But look!! The ruined countryside was green and fecund here. Great herds of cattle grazing on the hillside, as if the singers and their song had
healed
the land. Mayo was as it had been in his youth. Oh, sweet Ireland!

And now he could see Sligo Castle, such a beautiful place. The place where love lived. His heart filled suddenly with joy, filled so full he thought it might burst. Maeve would be waiting for him there. It was Maeve ’s home, and perhaps she was among the singers of the lovely song. No need to fear his beautiful wife.

As if by magic the
Dorcas
steered itself through the waves and toward Sligo Castle. His mother was below, arguing with the mate.

No, she would not take the helm. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest with a disapproving frown. But who was she to disapprove of her son sailing into the arms of love? Maeve was his wife. And Sligo Castle her childhood home.

“Da!” At once he recognized his son’s voice calling from below.

He looked down. Why hadn’t he seen Miles before? He was climbing up the rigging, not so surefooted as he himself had been. This was dangerous. The boy was inexperienced. He could fall, could be killed. But the singing voices were louder now. Very loud. He tore his gaze from Miles to the shore and Sligo Castle.

He could see the dock, and a dozen figures standing there. But wait! They were
men
. . . soldiers, soldiers wearing robin’s-egg-blue livery. Where was Maeve? he wondered. What had they done to her?

The fucking English! He opened his mouth and shouted, “You bastards, where is my wife? Where is my wife!” A gentle hand was shaking him and Maeve ’s sweet breath blew softly across his face. Tibbot opened his eyes.

“Da? Is Da all right?” He could hear Miles’s voice, half asleep. The boy was in a bed next to them.

“He ’s fine, son,” said Maeve. “Just dreaming out loud.” Tibbot could see only the outlines of Maeve ’s face in the dark, but he reached up and stroked her cheek, still unable to speak. He was trying to remember the strange dream that was quickly receding from his memory.

Maeve leaned down and kissed his lips. “You
are
all right, Tibbot?” she whispered. “You were calling out for me.”

“I’m all right,” he finally managed. “You were one of Homer’s sirens, or I thought you were. But then you turned out to be a soldier. An English soldier.”

“Was I in the dream too, Da?”

“You were,” said Tibbot, “climbing in the riggings of your grand-mammy’s boat.”

With another kiss Maeve snuggled down under the covers, her body warm and comfortable next to his. It was all starting to make sense now, Tibbot thought. The three of them—he, Maeve, and Miles—had arrived at Sligo Castle yesterday. It was a place he loved to visit, for many reasons. First and foremost it was his wife ’s childhood home—

where love lived.
It was still beautiful, the countryside surrounding the castle, as yet untouched by war. This, Tibbot knew, was the result of Maeve ’s uncle O’Connor Sligo’s longtime loyalty to the English. It had served as protection against the blight of warfare that had ruined the rest of Connaught, and Munster too. He loved the castle for another reason, one that he would never utter aloud in front of his mother. O’Connor had, over the years, brought the best of England into Sligo—a decent school for the children, furniture, hangings, plate. There was even a small gallery of portraits he ’d had painted of his family, hanging in the great hall.
Refinement
, that’s what it was. Tibbot did have a love for things English, gained from his years living in an English home. That was what his mother would hate to hear. And worse—all of them knew but did not say it aloud—he and Maeve bore a great debt of gratitude toward Richard Bingham himself. For it had been Grace ’s nemesis who had brought the pair together. Theirs had proven a love match from the beginning, despite the crass political reasons for which the marriage had been arranged.