Nell (13 page)

Nell hung her head. “I'm sorry for bringing you here, Jillian.”

If
I
hadn't come, I may never have figured out that you were really Eleanor.

They were silent after that, lost in their own thoughts until Jillian brought up what Nell knew but would not admit.
You
should
cultivate
Robert
Montgomery's friendship. Anyone would make a better mate than Henry Tudor.

Nell recalled Henry's fleshy lips and pawing hands and shuddered. Robert Montgomery was not a man to be cuckolded by anyone, not even a king. He was strong and not ill favored for a man of his years. But he was not Donal. “I am handfasted to Donal O'Flaherty,” she explained. “The child I carry is his. Even were I willing, no man would take a woman to wife knowing she carries another's babe in her belly.”

Have
you
told
anyone?

“No.”

Why
not
tell
Robert
the
child
is
his?

“'Tis too late for that, and even if it weren't, the immorality of such a deception troubles me.”

Then
tell
him, and let him decide. You've nothing to lose.

Nell wondered at this strange new world to which Jillian belonged. Had men changed so much that they no longer cared if their women took others to their beds? She took another searching look at this self-possessed young woman from the future. “Perhaps I shall tell him. If only you could take my place and tell him for me. I'm very sure you would know what to say.”

We
aren't enough alike for that,
said Jillian practically.

Nell wrinkled her forehead and stared at Jillian for a long moment. “I wonder if we are so very different, after all.”

I'm much taller, and our coloring is completely different. Besides, no one can see me.

“I'm not suggesting that you pretend to be me, Jillian. You won't be me, but you'll be with me, the way I've been with you. Without you, I would be sharing the king's bed this very minute, and without me, your Guinevere would have died. Two minds are better than one. Perhaps that's the reason you are here.”

Jillian felt a trembling deep within her, and for a single thunderous second her heart stopped. Nell remembered Guinevere.
You
may
be
right,
she said slowly.
I'll do what I can to help you.

***

Nell stared solemnly from the window at the rain-wet coffin borne by Lord Seymour, his two sons, and a nephew. Jane had not lasted beyond the christening of her newborn son. For three dreadful days, her body battled to expel the infant she carried. Finally, when it seemed the child would die in the birthing, the physician ordered away the midwife, produced a knife, wiped it clean on his doublet, and opened her stomach.

The babe was blue. Fearing for his life, the physician blew into the tiny mouth. His reward was a gasp followed by a mewling cry. Henry's son would live, but his mother, torn and burning with fever, would not.

Ten days after the birth of her son, Jane Seymour, queen of England, drew her last bubbling breath, turned her face to the wall, and died. Two days after that, Henry called for Thomas Cromwell to discuss the future of Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare.

Robert Montgomery looked down at the parchment still wet from the king's signature. “I don't understand, your majesty. The boy was to be spared.”

Henry stroked his graying beard. “I have a son. His succession will not be troubled by Geraldine ambitions.”

“How can a child who resides here at Whitehall threaten your majesty's power?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Robert's jaw tightened. He would not be the one to confirm Gerald's execution. “The queen favored the boy,” he said.

“Jane was ever a fool. She is dead, and I will not speak of her.”

Robert tried again. “A Fitzgerald ally would be to your advantage. Gerald is a warm-hearted lad. With the proper guidance, he will bring you great loyalty. Others will follow.”

Henry paused. “Does a mentor come to mind?”

“I will be his guardian, your grace. Give me his sister to wed, and I will see that the boy serves you well.”

Henry paused, arrested, and stared at Robert. Was there actually color in the man's cheeks? “How long have you aspired in this direction, Robert?”

“Never until this moment, your majesty. I know the match is an unequal one, but Lady Eleanor is fond of her brother. She will not dismiss me.”

“By God, she will not,” roared Henry. “Else I shall have
her
head. Bring her to me. Bring her at once.”

Robert was sweating beneath the fine linen of his shirtsleeves. “Please, your grace. Allow me to speak to Nell first.”

Henry glared at him. “She shall not be allowed to refuse, Robert. Tell her it is my desire that she wed at once. I shall give you Cilcerrig Castle. Take the boy, and raise him well.”

“It shall be as you wish, sire.”

“Go, Robert. Go and tell her at once.”

***

Nell, locked in the throes of a drugging sleep, heard the scratching at her door long before she recognized it for what it was. At first, she burrowed her head into her pillow, hoping it would go away. But the sound persisted, and finally she sat up, pushed her hair back, and slid off the bed to open the door. Her eyes met the solid wall of a masculine chest and widened.

Robert Montgomery smiled down at her. “Good evening, my lady.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Nell swallowed and stepped back. “Now?”

“Only if it pleases you, Nell. Later will do just as well.” She lifted her hand to her throat “Perhaps you'll allow me a few moments. I was sleeping.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I shall wait in the retiring room. Take as long as you like.”

Nell bolted the door and looked around the room. It was empty. “Jillian,” she whispered loudly. “Are you here?” There was no answer. She expected none. She must have fallen into a very deep sleep to have dreamed so vividly.
Jillian
Fitzgerald.
She had seemed so real. Nell could still see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the clear sharp bones of her cheeks, and that mouth. Jillian Fitzgerald had the mouth of a courtesan, the lips full and pouting, slightly chapped, filled with perfectly straight teeth, not unlike her own.

She sat down at the dressing table and stared dispassionately at her reflection. The glass was badly scarred, and the curved contours distorted her image, but even so, she knew that she was beautiful. Robert Montgomery, a landless knight of thirty years, might very well decide that a pregnant bride was a small price to pay for youth, beauty, and the Fitzgerald strain flowing through the blood of his grandchildren. She would tell him about the child. Something told her that no matter what he decided, Robert Montgomery would be a kinder gaoler than Henry Tudor.

He rose the moment she opened the door to the small room where he waited. Nell knew that his patience had worn thin. She came directly to the point “You have news for me, sir?”

“It is not good news, my lady.”

She blanched. “Is it Gerald?”

“Aye. Now that Henry has a true heir, he is more afraid than ever of your brother's influence in Ireland.”

“But Gerald has no ambitions in Ireland.”

He heard her speak, but he had no idea what she said. Entranced by the play of shadow and light across her face, he stared down at her. She was smaller than he remembered, fine-boned and slender. He wondered if she would breed well and then surprised himself when he realized that he no longer cared. He wanted her whether or not she gave him children.

“What shall I do?” Her anguished question brought him back.

Robert's hands clenched. He knew she would accept his offer. Her brother would die if she refused, but he had a perverse wish to make her want him without the condition. “You ask nothing for yourself, Nell. Have you no thoughts for your own future?”

“I am no threat to Henry. 'Tis not my life the king threatens.”

“If it could be arranged, would you leave Whitehall?”

She lifted her chin, a small woman with a spine like steel. “Not without Gerald.”

“Nell.” His voice cracked, and he reached out to grip her shoulders. “Marry me, and Henry will spare Gerald. I will take you to Wales. The boy will live if you become my wife.”

Her eyes blazed an angry gold. “You bargain with my brother's life and expect me to marry you?”

He saw his error at once. “I will not lie to you, lass. The notion was mine. I have wanted you for my own since the first moment I saw you. But 'tis Henry who threatens Gerald's life, not I. He was planning the lad's execution until I convinced him otherwise.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “You have no choice, Nell. Marry me, and Gerald will live.”

She stared at him, a thousand thoughts twisting inside her mind. He shook her slightly. “I'll be good to you. There is nothing left for you in Ireland. You will find happiness in Wales.”

Nell wet her lips. “I cannot marry you, Robert. I cannot marry anyone.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath. “I am handfasted to Donal O'Flaherty. I carry his child.”

“Why did you leave him?”

“Gerald needed me.”

The tightness eased around Robert's heart. “You left O'Flaherty for Gerald. For Gerald's sake, come with me.”

Her voice was the merest whisper of sand across paper. “What of my babe?”

“The child will be raised as my own.”

Nell smiled faintly. “Perhaps, if the child is a girl, but a boy—” She shook her head. “You cannot possibly accept another man's son as your heir.”

He grinned. “Without you, I would have no heirs at all.”

His smile was infectious. She returned it with one of her own. “Surely you would marry someone.”

Robert looked down at the bewitching loveliness of her face and wondered if he would ever spare another woman a second glance. “Unless you have me, lass, I will not be anyone's husband for a goodly length of time.”

“Why not?”

“I told you before, I am a second son. My brother has healthy heirs. I must make my way in the world with service to my king. I depend upon his appreciation.”

Gently, she extricated herself from his grip. “Will he extend his appreciation if I marry you, Robert?”

“Aye, lass.”

“What of Donal and the Brehon law under which we handfasted? 'Tis my law, Robert. I am a Fitzgerald.”

“Nell,” he said desperately, “there is no law in Ireland but Tudor law. Marry me. Your brother will live, and your child will have a name and a father. You have no choice.” The words stuck hot and choking in his throat. He was not a man for begging. “Please, Nell,” he managed. “I'll not touch you unless you invite me.”

She bit down on her lip. Something wasn't right. She felt very unlike herself. “Is the land so important to you, Robert?”

He knelt down and lifted her hand to his lips. “My dearest love, the land no longer has anything to do with it.”

Donal O'Flaherty crushed the parchment in his hand and threw it into the roaring flames that heated the third-floor living quarters of Aughnanure castle. Damn Desmond Fitzgerald! The mighty Geraldine who wished to rule all of Ireland could not even protect his own.

“What will you do, Donal?”

For a long time, the O'Flaherty looked deep into the leaping light of the fire and pondered his kinsman's question. The young man waited patiently. Finally, Donal turned to speak, and Sean O'Flaherty, related to Donal through the blood of his father, stood rooted to the floor rushes. The O'Flaherty's anger was not the raging fury of heated words and closed fists, easily lit and quickly spent. It was a physical thing, slow to catch and rise, but when it peaked, it became so fearsome that the younger man shuddered to think it might one day be directed at him.

Donal was neither loud nor blustering nor profane. His was a quiet, ice-filled rage, colder and far more deadly than those who had led before him. Young as he was, the O'Flaherty chief did not bend easily, nor was he known for his mercy. He was slow to lift his standard in battle, but when he did, those who invaded his lands and stole his cattle paid the ultimate penalty. Sean wondered what price the O'Flaherty would exact from the man who had stolen his woman.

The frozen fury in his chief's eyes lifted the young man's spirits. Surely, now, there would be a fight. Months had passed since the O'Flahertys had taken up arms. The men chafed under the burdensome yoke of inactivity. A steady sword arm required a turn now and then with a true enemy. Sean's smile brightened as he waited for his chief's answer.

“We shall host a party,” the O'Flaherty said slowly. “Every Irish lord and chief will be invited.”

Sean's disappointment was almost comical. The O'Flaherty laughed and clapped his young cousin on the shoulder. “Come now, Sean, a good
cruinniú
will please everyone, even those anxious for war.”

“Will there be women?”

“Not this time, lad.”

A sigh escaped Sean's lips. “When will the gathering take place?”

Donal paused to think. A week to send the missives. Another to prepare and yet another to travel. “Thirty days,” he said slowly. “We shall arrange the gathering to take place in thirty days.”

One month later, the cooks of Aughnanure swore and fretted as they stumbled over castle dogs gnawing on the slippery entrails and discarded bones of wild fowl, spring lamb, and game. Fish wrapped in bark lay smoking on banked coals, while soot-blackened kitchen maids turned giant haunches of venison on carefully sharpened spits. Loaves of oat cakes browned in open hearths, and in the cellars below, casks of wine,
uisce
beatha,
and honeyed mead were rolled out and poured into goblets and flasks lining the trestle tables of the great banquet hall.

Outside, it was still light with that fey glow that illuminates the western isles long after the rest of Ireland has put aside the day. Inside the hall, stewards heavy with the keys of their hereditary professions ushered guests across the rush-strewn floors to their places at the tables. The vaulted corbel-beamed ceiling of solid oak was bright with the standards of visiting chieftains, the boar of Desmond, the O'Brien lions, the O'Neills' red oak of Ulster, the stag of the MacCarthys, and, above them all on a giant stave, the golden dragons of the O'Flahertys bidding hospitality to one and all.

Not by the merest flicker of an eyelash did Donal reveal the intense emotion he felt as he watched his guests assemble in the banquet hall. Chieftains in quilted coats and leather trews, lords of the Pale, brilliant in their colorful doublets, all had come without exception. Even the great O'Neill had stirred himself, as had his hated enemy, Magnus O'Donnell, lord of Tirconnaill. Blood ties and marriage united them all, but most looked upon each other with suspicion, and few called each other friend. Yet they had come, united in their love of independence and their hatred for Henry Tudor. Only once during the height of their power had the Fitzgeralds managed to unite Gaels and Sean Ghalls under one roof.

Donal stared at the empty benches still to be filled. For two days he had worked to forge an agreement between the men who would fill those seats, if they would indeed fill them. He held his breath, waiting. Moments passed. It would all come to naught if they decided against him. He drew in a slow, controlled breath.

As if on cue, a tall man in his mid-thirties with long hair curling past his shoulders strode into the room. A murmur rose from the chiefs of the western isles as they recognized Felim O'Connor, descendant of the last high king of Ireland. He was followed by Conor O'Brien of the line of Brian Bora, kings of Munster, and Conn Bachach O'Neill, descendant of the kings of Ulster and the legends of
Emain Macha
. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited expectantly for the last seat to be filled.

Myles MacMurrough of Kavanagh, scion of the House of Leicester, walked to his seat, head held high, deliberately ignoring the hisses and taunts alluding to the unforgiven treachery of his royal ancestor, whose invitation to the Norman-Anglo lords led to the invasion of Ireland in the twelfth century.

Donal released his breath and crossed the room to take his seat under two hundred curious eyes. A wild cheer erupted in the hall. He smiled and lifted his goblet to signify the beginning of the feast.

Wooden trenchers of boiled meat and fowl were carried to the tables. Goblets were filled and filled again with foaming ale and spiced wine. Huge chunks of bread were torn from steaming loaves, a sop for fragrant meat juices rich with the fat so necessary for survival through frozen Irish winters. Later, after the trenchers were removed, potent
uisce
beatha
was passed around, and eyes glazed over as the fiery brew burned its path to sated stomachs.

Donal ate sparingly and drank even less. His eyes moved over the assembled chieftains, waiting and watching as the alcohol-induced voices grew ever louder and higher. Finally, he waved his hand, and the chief steward pounded on the wooden dais three times with his
bata.
Donal stood, and a hush filled the room.

In the leaping shadows, the torches threw arcs of light against the lime-washed walls, picking out the high bones of the young chief's face, shadowing the hollows, emphasizing dark and light, hair and eyes, skin and bones, angles and planes. He stood above them, well over normal height, muscles flame-lit and defined, hair like night, sculpted cheeks, eyes the strange glittering orbs bearing their Talesian mark. When he spoke, his words held them spellbound as he spun around them the magic of his lineage, the lineage of Merlin and his lady of the lake.

“Gaels and Sean Ghalls, Irish men, I bid you welcome.” He looked around the room, pulling them with the hypnotic, rain-swept power of his gaze. “You have come together for a mighty cause. Geraldine blood has washed the streets of London, and still the Tudor king is not satisfied. He holds Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare, son and heir of Gerald Og, and his sister, the Lady Eleanor, hostage at Whitehall. The boy will not be allowed to live.”

His eyes shone silver in the torchlight. He fixed his glance on the chieftain of each house, plying them with the beauty of his voice. “Today the House of Kildare will be wiped from the face of Ireland. Tomorrow the O'Donnells may fall, or the O'Malleys or the McCarthys. Before another season passes, I leave for England. When I return, it will be with the Geraldines.”

At last he came to it, the reason for which he'd summoned these men over hundreds of miles of forest and bogland. “Henry's army will follow me. What say you, my lords? Do you stand with me? Will you fight the English scourge and keep Ireland for the Irish?”

His words reminded the Gaelic chieftains of the bitter taste of Irish subservience, a position they had assumed three hundred years before with the Anglo-Norman invasions. To the lords of the Pale whose allegiance to the English Crown was as ingrained as that of the Irish to their high kings, it was a clear case of treason. But they were no match for the fire that burned like a heavenly flame within the young messiah who appealed so earnestly to them. Every eye was upon him, every heart stirred by his outrageous request. He asked them to forsake their security, to lift up their swords, to defy the king of England for a boy's right to live.

Unbelievably, O'Neill of Tyrone stood and deliberately placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I stand with you, O'Flaherty,” he said loudly.

Magnus O'Donnell, O'Neill's hereditary enemy, rose. “I, too, stand beside you,” he said.

A collective gasp swept over the room. Not since the betrayal of the O'Donnells by the O'Neills three hundred years before had the two clans ever sided with each other on matters of politics.

One by one, like wooden ninepins, the chieftains stood and raised their goblets in salute to the silent figure on the dais. The lords gazed at one another furtively. The proposal was a radical one. To break ties with England meant war to the death. Only the Kildares had been strong enough to organize such a feat. Finally, William Burke, lord of Galway, stood and pledged his sword. He was followed by Lords Dunsany, Carlisle, Fielding, and Gray. MacWilliam of Mayo spoke reasonably. In the thick speech of the western isles, he asked the question on everyone's mind. “Under whose banner will we fight?”

A smile so brief it was the merest flicker of muscle appeared on Donal O'Flaherty's lips. “Kildare's.”

It was the answer they waited for. Every man still seated rose in unison. The habits of a lifetime were strong and loyalty to their ruling house overcame the last lingering remnants of doubt. Passion replaced caution, and “
Crom
aboo!
” the ancient war cry of the Kildares, erupted from every throat. The Geraldine League was born.

***

Donal pulled his cloak over his face and walked close beside a donkey cart filled with hay. The guard at the city gates allowed him to pass through without question. Inside the walls, he made his way through the twisting streets to the front of the royal palace, where the poor begged for alms.

It was customary for the ladies at court to offer the leavings from their banquet tables at noon and again in the evening. Huddled beneath his cloak, Donal waited for three days before he heard the gossip he'd crossed an ocean to hear. Gerald was in Wales, the ward of Robert Montgomery of Cilcerrig and his wife, Eleanor Fitzgerald of Kildare.

***

There was something different about her. Robert couldn't put his finger on it. It was more than a natural preoccupation with the child she carried within her. She appeared unusually interested in the most ordinary of matters, the making of perfume, the fermenting of grain, the weaving of rushes, as if she were seeing everything with new eyes. Sometimes she was as he remembered her, a lord's daughter, filled with the grace and dignity of her position. And then there were moments when she was something else entirely, a combination of fire and ice, irreverence and compassion, sharp-tongued, blistering, combining an astute intelligence with a witty sense of the absurd. He had never met a woman like her.

Nell settled into the well-appointed castle as if she were born to it, supervising the servants, planning the meals, embroidering linens, arranging entertainment, caring for Gerald, and gracing Robert's table. She was everywhere at once, in the kitchens, the banquet halls, the library, her sitting room, the laundry, the smokehouse, everywhere except his bedchamber.

Robert had exhausted his list of duties. Under his guidance, walls were built, stores replenished, and guards trained, fields were tilled and crops planted. He had supervised the purchasing of horseflesh for the stables and ridden the boundaries of the estate, meeting for the first time those tenants who depended upon him for their survival. For the past week he had done nothing more promising than dicing and drinking in the great hall with his men, chafing at his inactivity.

Nell's changing moods unsettled him, as did the tightness in his belly and the empty space in his bed. He had given his word not to touch her, and he would keep to it unless she gave him reason to believe that she wanted what he did. Robert prided himself on his patience. Perhaps after the child was born, she would be more receptive. Meanwhile, there was the evening meal ahead, and Nell had promised to dine with him.

She came to the table dressed in a flowing white garment that concealed the bulk of her pregnancy. Her hair was loose and hung to her knees, heavy and gleaming like a sheaf of wheat after a spring rain. She said little as she stabbed an oyster with her knife and lifted it to her mouth, but she smiled as sweetly as any adoring bride when her eyes inadvertently met his. His throat locked, and immediately he choked. Reaching for his wine goblet, he drained it dry, clearing the obstruction and breathed deeply.

The frown between Nell's brows disappeared. “Have a care, Robert. You are very dear to us.”

His hand clenched around his bread knife. “Am I, Nell?”

“Of course.” Her eyes were wide and innocent and filled with concern. “How could you think otherwise?”

He tore at the bread until it was a mess of crumbs in his trencher. To speak from his heart would ruin the ease between them. But if he did not, he doomed himself to a lifetime of frustration. “I know that you are fond of me,” he mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes.

“You saved Gerald's life, Robert. I am more than fond of you.”

Hope filled his heart. He looked up. “Truly, Nell. Have you come to care for me?”

She smiled, and he felt as if she'd touched him.

“You are a dear man, Robert Montgomery. I will always care for you.”

He searched her face, lovely and gold-touched in the firelight. Her lips were smiling and parted in invitation. Throwing caution to the winds, he stood and walked to where she sat. Then he leaned over and touched his mouth to hers. She did not respond, but neither did she draw away. Encouraged, he rubbed her jaw with his thumb. His voice was hoarse, his emotions raw. “You are so lovely, Nell, and I have waited for so long.”