Skye O'Malley (74 page)

“But Willow said …” insisted Robin in defense of his adored older sister.

“Willow is an ignorant little girl who has obviously not been paying attention to her lessons and who badly needs a switching,” said Skye, hugging her son fiercely. She realized that Willow was badly frightened by her dramatic departure and, opening her other arm, said, “Oh, chick, come here and let me hug you too. But don’t cry, for there is nothing to weep about.” Willow flung herself into her mother’s arms, pressing as close to her as Skye’s pregnancy would allow, and then it was Skye who came close to weeping. The two heads, one so dark like her own, one so fair like Geoffrey’s, came together and she kissed them both, then gently disengaged them and stepped away.

“I must go now, my loves. Obey Niall, and make me proud.”

“Good-bye, Mama,” Willow’s eyes swam with unshed tears, but she gamely held them back.

“G-good-bye, Mama,” Robin stood straight.

“Good-bye, my lord Earl,” she replied, and then hurried from the room before the children saw her own tears.

Niall was waiting for her in their private family hall. Seeing the look on her face, he quickly caught her to him and kissed the hot tears that slid down her cheeks. “It’s my condition,” she muttered.

“I know,” he soothed, “it must be, for you’d never give the Queen a victory over you. I know that.”

“No,” she sniffed, fumbling for her handkerchief. “I certainly wouldn’t!”

He laughed. “That’s my girl!”

She wiped her eyes. “I must not keep Dickon waiting.” She stuffed the handkerchief away in an inner pocket of her cloak.

“You’re the most incredibly brave woman I know, Skye. Don’t fear, my love. I’ll let nothing happen to you. I have friends, and so do you. If the Queen thinks to harm you, she’ll not succeed. The secret of your arrest will not remain a secret long.”

“I’m not afraid, Niall,” she replied. Her eyes were clear now and she was calm. He felt a surge of pride sweep over him.
God help Elizabeth Tudor
, thought Niall, for
she’s never tangled with a wildcat like my Skye
.

In the courtyard the horses stamped in the crisp air, their hot breath visible. Daisy, who had insisted on going into captivity with her mistress, was already seated in the coach. Carefully Niall helped his wife into the vehicle. Clambering up after her, he tucked a fur robe about her legs. Her blue eyes regarded him calmly and she said softly, “Perhaps you’d have done better to marry a meek miss than a wild widow.”

He chuckled, answering just as softly. “I had me two meek misses, madam. I far prefer the widow. I always did.” Then he kissed her, a sweetly gentle kiss that set her heart fluttering wildly.

“Oh God, I shall miss you, Niall Burke!”

“There’s time to flee, my love. You’ve but to claim you’re in early labor, and then it’s off to Lundy through the cave with that English buffoon, de Grenville, none the wiser.”

“No!” she said sharply. “I mean to beat Bess Tudor, and keep it all!”

“You’re a stubborn woman, Skye O’Malley, but I believe you’ll win.”

“Oh, I will, Niall! I will!”

He took her small hand in his, and kissed it slowly, first the back, and then the palm. “Farewell, madam, I’ll look after all here.”

She felt a catch in her throat as he stepped out of the coach and shut the door firmly behind him. She watched him stride over to Dickon and speak with him, his face grim.

“I want you to travel carefully, de Grenville. I am holding you personally responsible for the safety of my wife and unborn child. Do you understand that? If anything happens to either of them I will personally slay your wife and family and burn your bloody house.”

“I’ll be careful, my lord,” said de Grenville. “I’d not take Skye at all in her current condition were I not under direct orders from the Queen.”

“I understand,” said Niall quietly. “Will you keep me informed of any news? And if she may have visitors, go to see her so she won’t be lonely.”

De Grenville nodded. Mounting his horse, he led the procession of soldiers, coach, and baggage wagon from the courtyard of Lynmouth Castle across the drawbridge and out onto the road. To his vast surprise, the road was crowded with people for over two miles. Tenant farmers, villagers, merchants and fishermen, gamekeepers and castle servants, young and old stood cheek by jowl lining both sides of the road, all quietly supporting their mistress. Here and there, de Grenville heard a voice call out: “God keep your ladyship, and bring you safely home to us!”

What the hell is Bess Tudor about?
de Grenville wondered.
What has Skye done that no one knows about, yet has offended the Queen so terribly?

The trip, which should have taken but a few days, took well over a week. The coach moved at a sedate pace, stopping frequently so the lovely Countess might stretch her legs or refresh herself. They started late in the day and stopped early. When de Grenville suggested they might move a little faster, Skye took to her bed, thus delaying them an additional day. Thereafter, de Grenville gritted his teeth and kept his peace.

When they finally arrived in London, de Grenville transferred Skye to a closed water barge so her coach with the Lynmouth arms emblazoned on the doors would not be recognized. The coach and its servants were returned immediately to Devon.

Parted from the familiarity of her coach and servants, Skye felt some of her courage ebb away, though from the serene look on her face no one would have known it. She had learned long ago that to show fear only encouraged one’s enemies. Carefully de Grenville handed her and Daisy down into the waiting barge, then joined them.

“I always wanted to take you out on the river in my barge,” he said in a lighthearted attempt at conversation.

“I am sure, Dickon,” she answered, “that cruising on your barge would be far preferable than the cruise I am about to take on this one.”

“Skye, damme, what is going on between you and the Queen?!”

“I really have no idea at all, Dickon,” she replied sweetly, and turned her face away from him to gaze out on the river.

He sighed deeply, but made no further attempt.

Skye breathed slowly, concentrating hard on the simple act of drawing air into her lungs and expelling it. Each beat of the oars brought her closer to imprisonment and God only knew what else. But, she swore silently to herself, she would admit nothing! She would beat the Queen at this cat-and-mouse game if it was her last act on this earth.

A soft rain began to fall. The twilight was a mauve-gray about them. It was quiet on the river, and there seemed to be no other boats upon the water. Then Skye’s heartbeat accelerated. For ahead of them the Tower of London loomed tall, dark, and menacing in the early evening. The barge turned shoreward, and the child in her womb kicked as the craft bumped the stone quay. She placed a protective hand over her belly thinking as she did so,
Fear not, my child, I will protect you
. Yes, said a nagging voice in her head, but who will protect
you?
She shivered.

De Grenville leaped from the boat to help Skye out. She stood for a minute savoring her last moments of freedom, then turned to mount the stairs to the Tower. The steps were smooth with age, and slick with the rain, and to her annoyance she slipped once, but de Grenville caught her beneath the elbow and steadied her.

She stopped to regain her balance, then pulled away from him. “I am not afraid, my lord.”

“It was only the steps, Skye, I know,” he answered, all the while thinking how brave the lady really was.

The Tower governor met her at the entry, looking extremely distressed as he noted her condition. To be sure, she wouldn’t be the first woman to give birth here, but how he hated imprisoning pregnant women! Anything could happen under these conditions. The governor greeted his prisoner as warmly as was appropriate.

“Please take supper with my wife and me, Lady Burke. It will give your servant time to ready your rooms. I’ll send my own people up with your baggage, and see that the fires are laid.”

“Thank you, Sir John,” answered Skye. Turning, she said, “Farewell, Dickon. Please tell Her Majesty that if I had really wanted to come to London, I should have done so long before this. I wish a list of the charges against me, and if there are none then tell the Queen she holds me illegally.” She turned again. “Sir John, your arm please. I am so ungainly these days.”

Richard de Grenville left the Tower and made his way to Whitehall where the Queen was currently in residence. He went directly to Cecil, Lord Burghley’s apartment and asked to see him immediately. The secretary, by now inured to the usual request for haste, was surprised when Cecil told him to send in Sir Richard at once. When the door had shut behind Dickon, Cecil motioned him to a chair and asked, “What took you so long, sir? Was there difficulty at Lynmouth?”

“No, my lord, none at all, although Lord Burke is very angry and Lady Burke is confused about why the Queen would arrest her. There is one complication, and that was what delayed us.” Cecil looked inquiringly at him and de Grenville explained, “Lady Burke will be delivered of a child within a few months. It was necessary, therefore, to travel slowly.”

“Damn!” swore Cecil. “I warned the Queen, and now—” He stopped himself.

“My lord,” Dickon plunged in, “why has the Countess been arrested? What has she done?”

“Done? Why she has done nothing that we know of, Sir Richard. She is merely under suspicion.”

“Oh.” He desperately wanted to ask under suspicion of what, but he dared not.

“You may go now, Sir Richard. You’ll remember, of course, not to discuss this mission with anyone.”

“Yes, my lord.” He turned to go, hesitated, then turned back and asked, “May I visit Skye occasionally, my lord? She’s apt to be lonely.”

“No, Sir Richard, you may not. Her presence in London is to remain strictly a secret. If anyone saw you there, you could not possibly explain your visits to the Tower.” When de Grenville looked crestfallen, Cecil added in a more kindly tone, “Perhaps you may see her before Christmas, Sir Richard, and carry her greetings home to her family.”

Alone, Cecil sat back, satisfied that he had effectively isolated Lady Burke. They would leave her alone for a few weeks to stew over why she was there. If she was really guilty, she would be quite thoroughly frightened by the time they got around to her interrogation. He smiled.

Some days later, however, Cecil was not smiling with regard to the matter of Lady Burke. Standing before him was an irritatingly implacable Irish nun who identified herself as Sister Eibhlin née O’Malley, of St. Bride’s Convent, Inishturk Island.

“I have come,” she said in a soft but firm voice, “to attend my sister in her travail.”

At first Cecil pretended ignorance. “Madam,” he answered coldly, “I have no idea to what you refer.”

Eibhlin flashed him a hauntingly familiar mocking smile. “My lord, let us not waste time. Your signature was on my sister’s arrest warrant. I have spent the last several days traveling here at breakneck speed from the west coast of Ireland. I mean to be with Skye, and unless you give me leave to join her, I shall find some means of getting to the Queen and making this whole affair public. The O’Malleys have held their peace thus far, for Lord Burke assures us this is but a misunderstanding.”

“Why?” demanded Cecil, now becoming irritated, “why should I allow you to be with your sister, madam? I will not allow her husband. Why her sister?”

“My brother-in-law is a fine fellow to be sure, sir, but I am a midwife by profession. Skye needs me.”

“She has her woman with her.”

“Daisy? An excellent lass for doing hair or caring for my sister’s clothing and jewels—but as a midwife? I fear not. The mere sight of blood sets the poor girl to swooning and there is much blood connected with a birthing. Did you know that? Perhaps though, you would prefer that my sister suffer.”

“Good God, woman!” snapped Cecil. “We wish no harm to Lady Burke. We would have sent someone to help her when her time came.”

“I can well imagine,” rejoined Eibhlin scornfully. “Some ancient crone with dirty fingernails who would undoubtedly infect both Skye and the babe. What do you know, my lord Cecil, of midwifery?”

The Queen’s closest advisor felt his temper rising higher. The woman was insufferable. “Madam,” he thundered, “getting into the Tower is easy. It is the getting out that will be hard.”

Again she smiled that mocking smile, and this time he recognized it. It was the Countess of Lynmouth’s smile.
Strange
, thought Cecil,
the nun doesn’t look like Lady Burke at all but for the mouth. I would never believe them even related but for that smile … and that annoyingly superior attitude
. “I am not afraid, my lord.” She answered him, and he acknowledged that she wasn’t. Ah, these over-proud Irish, he again thought. “Go then, madam. My secretary will issue the necessary papers,” he said.

“I trust I shall be free to come and go, my lord. There will be necessities I must get when my sister’s time comes.”

“No, madam,” said Cecil. “It would be too simple for Lady Burke to escape the Tower in a nun’s robes. Whatever you need you must either take in with you or have the servants fetch from the markets. You may enter the Tower, but once you leave it you will not be allowed back inside. Those are the conditions.”

“Very well,” answered Eibhlin. “I will abide by your conditions.” She bowed faintly to him and, turning said regally, “Farewell, my lord. My thanks.”

Several hours later, clutching the precious parchment in her slender hands, Eibhlin O’Malley entered the Tower of London and was escorted to her sister’s apartment high in one of the several towers. As she mounted the stairs, Eibhlin was pleased to see that the soldier who escorted her was respectful, and that the building seemed clean, relatively draft-free, and had no noxious odors.

Skye was sleeping when she arrived, but Daisy practically fell on her neck with undisguised relief.

“Oh, Sister, thank God you’re here!”

Eibhlin’s generous mouth twitched with amusement. “Now, Daisy, is it as bad as all that?”