The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (30 page)

It had proven easier than she ’d imagined, the English even more gullible and careless than she had hoped. When “Fire!” had been called in the barracks on the far side of Tralee Village, all but four of the soldiers guarding the fleet were ordered to fight the blaze. Those four were easily disabled, and there was more than sufficient time to drill the hulls of the English vessels full of holes. By the time the fire was out, Grace and her fleet had cleared the harbor. The soldiers returning to their dockside post would have been gobsmacked to find their prisoners escaped and their own ships listing in the water.

All of Grace ’s vessels made it safely to the high seas and well into the Bay of Biscaye before the English could take out after them.

Now she could take pleasure in knowing that all her ships but the
Owl
were bound for Ulster ports, loaded with Spanish guns and ammunition for Hugh O’Neill’s army. By a rare stroke of ill fortune, her own ship had been intercepted off the Scilly Isles by the queen’s navy, and now their large escort was making escape impossible.

As the hull scraped the wooden dock at Tralee, a mate gave Grace his hand and helped her down from the
Owl
’s deck. She could see the company of English soldiers still standing at rigid attention. They would have been tongue-lashed, or more probably punished for their stupidity in allowing the rebels’ escape. Of course it would have been Brady’s ill-conceived orders that had left the fleet all but unguarded, but officers like Brady never claimed responsibility for their blunders when there were perfectly good underlings to take the fall. There he was—the good captain coming forward to meet Grace as she disembarked.
He’s smiling
, Grace thought.
Why is he smiling?
Then she saw, walking by his side, yet another surprise. It was her son Tibbot with Captain Brady, and the two men were chatting amiably.

Her boy was looking more manly and handsome than she ’d ever known him, and it was he who extended his hand to help her from the deck. “Mother,” he said, and embraced her. The English captain looked on with a hardly disguised grimace.

“Hello, son,” she said. “Good to see you.” Then to Brady, “Good afternoon, Captain.”

“Welcome home, Mistress O’Malley. We ’ve missed you.”

“As I have you,” she said, growing more perplexed by the moment.

The storm, if it was to break, must surely break soon. But Brady simply accompanied Grace and Tibbot to the wagon that awaited them. From the corner of her eye, she could see the soldiers in a calm and orderly fashion boarding the
Owll
to search it. They would come up empty-handed, she knew, which would only add to their frustration.

Tibbot had chosen to drive his mother, so in moments they were alone, a pair of ponies hauling the wagon up the track to Tralee Village and Grace ’s stone house.

“What was that all about?” she said.

“Rather a happy surprise?”

“I’d say so. What’s happened?”

“Richard Bingham’s been brought up on charges.”

“No . . .”

“By his own countrymen. Fenton and Perrot are as keen to be done with him as you are. He ’s in Dublin now, facing an inquiry.”

“Jesus be praised.”

“Captain Brady was happily left to his own devices after he let you slip away,” said Tibbot. “With the flap about Bingham, hardly anyone noticed your escape. Even though your fleet has gone missing—doing who knows what mischief—at least he has the ‘rebel woman’ in his hands again. Whatever harsh measures he might have taken against you have been, well,
softened
by my influence.”

“Then your influence must have grown substantially in my absence.”

“You could say that. Word has it that while Grace O’Malley can always be counted on to make trouble, her son’s loyalty to the Crown may still be winnable.”

Grace was rendered silent by the thought, one that constantly troubled her. It had become clear in recent years that while Tibbot loved her very dearly, she carried no influence in the matter of his loyalties. Now she worried that his ambitions, together with his chameleonlike changeability, would lead him astray.

“I’ve just come from Sligo Castle,” he went on, unrepentant for the stance he knew annoyed her. “There ’s been a rather interesting development.”

“Oh?”

“Ulick Burke has mutinied and handed the castle over to Red Hugh.”
So Ulick Burke was taking a stand against
his
father, a longtime loyalist
to the English—yet another Irish family sundered by this never-ending conflict.
“Has he now?” said Grace. “What of O’Connor and Donal Sligo?”

“Put out of the castle.”

Grace sat silently, digesting the intelligence. Finally she said, “And where do you stand in all of it?”

They’d reached the stone house, and Tibbot helped his mother from the carriage. ’Twas he who was silent now, carefully considering her question. With no answer forthcoming, she walked ahead of him up the stone path and entered the dark, frigid residence, then went about lighting the lamps as Tibbot followed her in.

“Your cook’s gone to market,” he said. “She should be back soon with our dinner.”

“Don’t change the subject, Tibbot. Where do you stand?”

“I haven’t yet decided,” he said. “O’Connor and Donal are Maeve ’s kin, and they’ve been good to me.”

That they were English sympathizers was hardly mentionable
, thought Grace.

“On the one hand, Red Hugh has no right to be invading Connaught,” Tibbot continued. “On the other . . .” Grace could see a light beginning to burn behind her son’s eyes.

“. . . he ’s proposed an election for the MacWilliamship, and he says that no one is more qualified than myself for the title.”

“Let me get this straight. An O’Donnell from Ulster is calling for the election of the Burkes’ MacWilliam in Connaught. And you believe, by Red Hugh’s influence, you’ll be elected?”

“I do.”

“And as Red Hugh’s MacWilliam, would you fight as an Irish rebel?”

“I’ll never be
Red Hugh
’s MacWilliam, Mother. When I’m elected I’ll be my own man, the chieftain I was always meant to be. And yes, I’d fight for Ireland.”

“For as long as the rebels were victorious,” said Grace.

“There ’s a good chance they’ll prevail.”

“Do you really think Red Hugh would ever, in a thousand years, back
you
for the MacWilliamship? You’re too strong a leader in Mayo, Tibbot.

What Hugh needs is a follower, someone with no ambition of his own.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Tibbot argued.

Grace ’s head was beginning to ache. She lowered herself into an armchair. “Light the fire for your mam, will you, son?” That was all she would say on the subject. She would refrain from nagging him. She hated nagging women, and besides, she knew that, in any event, it was futile.

Relieved of Grace ’s inquisition Tibbot became industrious, carefully laying the peat bricks in the hearth and setting them to light. It was not long before the heat began to ease her bones, and after Tibbot placed a pillow at her back, Grace settled comfortably into the chair.

“Have you had a letter back from the queen on your complaints?” he asked.

“I’ve heard nothing myself from England. Just rumors that she refuses to send sufficient troops here, or to properly supply the ones she does send.”

“Good news for us.”

“Aye, Elizabeth is blind when it comes to Ireland. And deaf. And stupid.”

“She speaks well of
you
,” said Tibbot with a teasing smile.

“She ordered your release,” said Grace, “and I appreciated that. But I got the feeling she was moved to free you not from a queenly place in her mind, but from somewhere softer—in her heart. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it came from a
mother’s
heart. Who knows, maybe those stories were true about her and Dudley’s son. When I was in the Spanish Court, I heard a strange tale of an English spy captured in the north of Spain—

a man callin’ himself Arthur Dudley, the queen’s bastard. King Philip wasn’t sure the man was who he claimed to be, but was cautious enough to chuck young Arthur Dudley in the Madrid Gaol and throw away the key. If he ’s who he says he is, he ’s the rightful heir to the English throne.” Grace ’s eyes narrowed. “Arthur would have been your age, Tibbot, or thereabouts. Perhaps the queen’s fine gesture releasing you was as one mother to another.”

“That’s a fine story, Mother,” said Tibbot, amused, “one that only a romantic would believe. Who would have thought Grace O’Malley a romantic? I think I’m the only one who knows it.”

“Well, Tibbot, you’re the only man in the world I love. Who better to know my weak side?”

“You trust me then?”

“I trust you would never betray your mother.”

“Like my brother did?”

Grace was silent, her eyes suddenly hard.

“Are you sure you won’t see Murrough?” Tibbot ventured.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“He ’s your son.”

“And he was ready to whack my head off !”

“That’s not true. He was simply fighting alongside Bingham. He had no idea you would show up in that tent.”

“But that’s the point, Tibbot. He was fighting alongside
Bingham
.

That bastard murdered his brother Owen! There ’s fighting for England for expediency’s sake, and there ’s fighting with the Devil himself. What Murrough did was inexcusable. I may be his mother, but there ’s a limit to how much I can tolerate. And don’t be standin’ up for him!”

“He ’s a brilliant fighter,” Tibbot persisted. “And I would do well to keep him by my side.”

“Aye, he takes after his father like that. So keep Murrough at your side—if you must. Just watch your
back,
brother or not.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I don’t like your patronizing tone when you say that.”

“No patronizing intended. Look, forget about Murrough and tell me about Spain.”

“Aye, Spain. ’Twill be Ireland’s savior if she keeps her promises. I met the king.”

“You met King Philip?”

“I did, at the Escorial. I’m Hugh O’Neill’s messenger now,” she said with an amused smile.

“What were you sent to say?”

“Oh, I offered him the crown of Ireland in return for his help with the rebels.”

“What did he think of the offer, coming from the mouth of a woman?”

“I didn’t ask him that, but I suspect it surprised him. He was most solicitous, though, for he wants Ireland badly. Poor old bastard. Very shriveled, with knee joints swollen to the size of melons. His skin is like parchment and covered in oozing sores. They say he eats nothing but meat, and that’s causin’ him to rot from the inside out.”

“So you offered him O’Neill’s crown. And then what?”

“Well, he looked in my eyes very long and hard, silent like, and then he stood and hobbled out the door of his bedchamber, where I’d been taken to see him. He hasn’t a throne room in that mausoleum he calls a castle, but lives in a Spartan little room with only a bed and a chair and a table—the King of Spain! So he rises with those wretched knees and opens a door, beckoning me after him into—if you can believe it—a great, soaring chapel. He can lie in his bed, he tells me, with the door open and stare in at a huge painted Jesus hangin’ on the cross above a gilded altar. It brings him peace, he says.

“So down on the marble on his poor knees he goes—enjoyin’ the agony, if you ask me—and he points to the floor beside him. Well, I kneel there too, and for the longest time King Philip prays his heart out for guidance from the Lord. All of a sudden he cries out like somebody’s stabbed him, but he ’s all right, and he turns to me and says, ‘The Lord has spoken, and he entreats me to help my brethren bring back the true religion to Ireland.’ Of course I don’t tell him that the last thing on Hugh O’Neill’s mind is the Catholic Church. He ’ll do or say
anything
to be granted King Philip’s aid against Elizabeth. Who better to ask than the man who named her a heretic, and England the ‘Scarlet Whore of the World’? ‘Oh yes,’ he says, ‘God is on Ireland’s side, as he is on Spain’s, and we will have a great victory in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.’ I didn’t say, ‘Where were God and Jesus in the English Channel? How could he let your armada founder, and your soldiers die like dogs on the coast of Ireland?’ I didn’t say that. I just let him rave on until he was ready to sign the requisitions for guns and shot and powder. And then he blessed me—as though he was some sort of holy man himself—and sent me on my way.

“I’ve met all kinds of people, Tibbot. Ones with war and killing on the brain, ones who think of nothing but love, and what goes on between the covers. Some are devoted to learning, others to great art, or storytelling, or the makin’ of fine wine. But never in my life have I met anyone—layman or clergy or saint—who has been so one-minded about God as the King of Spain is. Devotion is fine, but with him I fear ’tis a sickness. And while Ireland owes him a debt of gratitude for all he ’s given, and promises to give in the future, I fear his religious disease may infect our cause and bring us to grief.”

“You worry too much, Mother. Just take his gifts and never look back. For my part, your story gives me great hope for the rebellion.” Tibbot’s eyes were shining again. “All of a sudden it feels possible.

When I’m The MacWilliam, I’ll join with Red Hugh and Hugh O’Neill and we ’ll take back Ireland. Take it back from the heretic queen!”

“Will you?” said Grace very quietly.

Tibbot Burke was too lost in his dreams of triumph to hear the sarcastic tinge to his mother’s voice, the worry that her fickle son was less a man of his word than his changing passions, and that one day he would break her heart.

ANOTHER BLANKET, damn you! Throw me in another blanket!” Tibbot Burke could hear himself shouting at the door of his dark, reeking prison cell, and he feared that a touch of desperation had crept into his voice.
Sweet Jesus, he could not, would not allow
his captors to see his weakness.
But if he didn’t get another blanket and some decent food in his belly, he would die in this black hole, and that, Tibbot thought with sudden defiance, was simply not his destiny.