The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (43 page)

Blount took a swig from his flask and read silently for a moment, having difficulty reading with his bleary eyes. “She was very distressed to learn of the courts-martial of Harrington and his men. She wishes to know if you really believe that the execution of the lieutenant who ran away with the colors, and one out of every ten soldiers in the unit, was sufficient.”

“Would she have me hang the entire company?”

“Ah,” Blount went on, “she hopes she will not have cause to repent her employment of you”—he gave Essex a beady stare—“and she finds it
intolerable
that you dared create fifty-eight knights in Limerick.” He looked up at Essex again. “She hated it when you did the same in France and Cadiz. You really should stop doing that, Robert. You’ve created more knights in three expeditions than exist in all of England.”

“Shut up, Christopher.” Southampton grabbed the parchment sheets from Blount and perused them. “Well, at least she blames the Irish Privy Council for the disastrous Munster tour. That’s something.”

“Hurrah,” said Essex, and pulled the covers up to his neck.

“Tyrone is apparently touting his victories over the English all round the continent.” Southampton went on with his paraphrasing of the queen’s letter. “Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Blount drunkenly demanded.

“Here ’s the meat of it.” Southampton smiled sympathetically at Essex, whose head was thrown back on the pillow, his eyes closed.

“ ‘Why have you left the rebel Tyrone unassailed?’ ” he read directly from the parchment, perfectly mimicking Elizabeth’s shrill tone. “ ‘What of the plan to place a garrison at Lough Foyle? Have you forgotten my exhortations entirely? What in God’s name can I say to induce you to proceed to the northern action!’ ”

“I thought she blamed the Council for my delay in going north,” said Essex.

“She seems to have forgotten that for the moment,” Southampton replied.

“Bitch.” Christopher Blount was already half asleep.

“ ‘You have broken the hearts of our best troops,’ ” Southampton went on reading, “ ‘and weakened your strength upon inferior rebels.

You’ve run out the glass of time, which can hardly be recovered. I insist you put the ax to the root of the tree—treasonable stock from which so many poisoned plants and grafts have been derived.’ ” Southampton went on reading in silence, then looked up with a mournful expression

“She again refuses you the two thousand reinforcements you requested.”

“God
damn
the woman!”

“Oh,” Southampton uttered, and quietly put down the pages.

“What?” Essex demanded. “What has she said?” Southampton seemed genuinely stricken. “Perhaps we should finish reading this when you’re better.”

“I’m as well as I’m going to be,” Essex insisted, “which in itself is a frightening thought. Just tell me what she ’s written.” Southampton blew out a breath. “She ’s rescinded her permission allowing you to return to England at your own discretion.”

“What!”

“You must first petition her in writing, stating your reasons for wishing to come, and under whose command you intend to leave your army.” Southampton continued to read and paraphrase. “Then you will await her answer, in writing, before setting out for London. But under no circumstances are you to ‘desert your post’ without her express permission.” Essex sighed, defeated. “Does the woman sit up all night inventing new and terrible ways to insult and torture me?”

“It seems so.”

“What has she done now?” said Christopher Blount, slurring his words.

“Go back to sleep,” Southampton told him, an order Blount promptly obeyed.

“What am I to do?” said Essex. “What am I to do!” There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Southampton called, for Essex was too miserable even to care.

“Conyers Clifford, sir. May I come in?” came the voice through the door.

With his eyes Essex commanded Southampton to open the locked door and Clifford was admitted. He respectfully acknowledged Southampton and afterward came to the bedside, giving Essex a sharp, formal bow. Then his face softened in friendly concern. “My lord, you are still unwell. I heard you’d contracted swamp fever, but I’d hoped the purge would have cured you.”

“ ’Tis less the fever that lays me low,” said Essex, “than the betrayal of a friend. But never mind. Come, sit.” Clifford obeyed, pulling a chair up next to the bed, graciously ignoring the sight of Christopher Blount lying passed out at Essex’s feet.

“You’re very well, I see,” said Essex. “Just looking at you makes me feel better.”

“That pleases me, my lord.”

Essex could see how deeply appreciated was the compliment. His officer’s handsome face was aglow.

“I come bearing ill news of Connaught,” Clifford began. “Our friend, O’Connor Sligo, has been besieged in his castle of Collooney, at the far end of the Curlew Mountains.”

“By whom has he been besieged?” demanded Essex.

“Red Hugh O’Donnell. With your permission I will take my army—

still a substantial force of three thousand foot and three hundred horse—

and lift the siege. O’Connor Sligo is to my way of thinking, our greatest western loyalist. He must not go unsupported, my lord. If we succeed, I believe we will not simply be relieving O’Connor Sligo, but will once and for all break the back of the rebellion in Connaught.”

“Then by all means proceed,” said Essex, pleased by such optimism.

“I also expect to receive assistance in this campaign from Tibbot Burke,” Clifford added.

“Oh?” Essex, intrigued, pulled himself upright in bed.

“I’ve ordered him to load his galleys with food and ammunition at Galway,” said Clifford, “and proceed to Sligo Harbor to await my orders. By the time we fight at Collooney and make it through the Curlew Pass to the sea, we ’ll be in sore need of revictualizing and rearming.”

“Surely Red Hugh will know Tibbot is lying at anchor there with supplies,” Essex observed.

“I assume he will.”

“And you trust that Tibbot will hold fast for your orders and not O’Donnell’s?”

“Entirely. Tibbot Burke is my man. My friend. Our ally. I believe you met him in Limerick.”

“I did.”

“Did you not find him altogether trustworthy?” Essex hesitated. “
Almost
altogether trustworthy.”

“He was loyal at the battle of Ballyshannon and helped us win a victory there,” Clifford said with great feeling. “For myself, I would put my life in his hands. That is how loyal I believe him to be.”

“You’ve proven yourself again and again, Clifford, and so I bow to your judgment in this. Take your men and what supplies you need, and grab Collooney Castle back from O’Donnell.” Essex put out his hand. “I wish you well.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Clifford stood, nodding first to Essex and then Southampton. He smiled in Blount’s direction. “
He’s
got the right idea.”

The three men laughed familiarly and Southampton showed Clifford out the door.

“More officers like that one and we ’d win this war,” said Essex as Southampton returned.

“Perhaps his campaign in Connaught will distract O’Donnell and Tyrone,” said Southampton. “Pull their eyes from Ulster so we might successfully invade. Collooney may be the battle that turns the tide for us.”

“May heaven allow it,” Essex muttered. “Something must change for the better, my friend, or we are doomed as surely as Christopher Blount is dead to the world.”

Essex gazed down at his stepfather’s peaceful countenance, wondering doubtfully if he, himself, would ever again know such tranquility in his life.

16

GALWAY WAS A CITY occupied, and it pained Grace to see it so. She had come here on a difficult mission today, but one she could ill afford to delay. Nowhere more than the docks was the occupation so noticeable, with English soldiers marching by the dozen at the wharves, searching the cargoes of every vessel anchored there. They took especial delight in rough-handling seamen and merchants alike, even had their way with any Irish girl senseless enough to venture out to the docks unescorted. This was the greatest shame, as the Galway streets had always been known as a safe haven for women of all ages.
In the old
days,
Grace remembered with a stab of unaccustomed longing,
they used
to be terrified of the O’Flahertys. The days before a person had to choose sides
in this miserable conflict.

She boarded the
Granuaile
, now being loaded with barrels of powder and shot and crates full of biscuit and dried fish, and was met by a chorus of warm greetings from the crew. It always surprised Grace how glad Tibbot’s men were to see her, but she guessed it had to do with a hunger not unlike her longing for the old days in Galway. Grace O’Malley stood for what
had
been Connaught, and even if Tibbot promised a future on the winning side of this war, they could not help remembering.

Grace found him on the poop overseeing the loading of his ship.

“What have you here?” she demanded.

“A good day to you too, Mam,” Tibbot replied without smiling.

She could see her son was burning with a short fuse this day, but she was in no mood to coddle him. “It looks to be a fine load of shot and powder and guns too. For your English friends?”

“Why do you bother to ask?” he said. “You know it is.”

“I suppose I do.” Gulls were wheeling about in the sky overhead and Grace suddenly envied their freedom. “Couldn’t you let the English down just this one time? At least let them wonder at your loyalty.”

“They
do
wonder, and for good reason. But this time I must go.”

“Ah, your ‘friend,’ Clifford.”

“Indeed my
friend
is marching to lift Red Hugh’s siege on Maeve ’s uncle at Collooney Castle. Do you begrudge me trying to save Connaught from O’Donnell’s tyranny?”

“Do you begrudge Ireland trying to save itself from the English?”

“Mam—”

“O’Neill and O’Donnell are only trying to unite us. ’Tis the only chance we have to win.”

“I don’t believe we have a chance under Heaven of winning.”

“That’s very clear.”

“Look, is it so terrible to think of English rule? Bingham is gone and Clifford is well loved here.”

“
Well loved.
” She sniffed at the idea.

“He is. He was more than courageous at Ballyshannon, and what’s more, he governs with a fair hand.”

“And when he ’s dead and gone, who will we get next to rule us?”

“Clifford is young and healthy and he wishes to stay on as governor.”

“Oh, he ’s told you that, has he? You
are
good friends.”

“Who are you to talk about fraternizing with the enemy? You and your Lord Lieutenant Essex—”

“I don’t bring him guns!”

Grace noticed Tibbot ’s eyes shifting behind her shoulder. She turned and found Murrough looming over her. “Hello, son.” Her voice was flat and dull.

“Mam.”

“You goin’ with your brother to help the English?” Grace knew as soon as the words had left her mouth that the sarcasm was stupid and weak and had probably shot straight over Murrough’s head. She ’d long ago lost patience with the man, and tied as they were by blood, she had nothing to say to him. Nothing at all.

Murrough, for all his size and strength, had a dim look about him, not unlike his father, Donal. Clearly he bore as little affection for his mother as she for him, and did not bother even to answer her question.

Instead he looked to his brother. “I’ve brought with me twenty-two strong oarsmen.”

“Good,” said Tibbot. “Bring them aboard and settle them. We ’re off when the loading’s done.”

Murrough turned and walked away without another word.

“Where are you headed then?” said Grace, resigned.

“Up round Erris Head to Sligo Harbor. Clifford ’s marching through the Curlew Hills to Collooney. When they’ve taken the castle back, we ’ll meet him at Sligo.”

“You be safe now, you hear me?”

“I will be safe.”

Grace could feel her mouth twist with peevishness. “I’d wish you well, son, but ’twould be a false wish.” He accepted that with a sanguine expression. “God speed, Mam.” They embraced stiffly, but as she pulled away Grace could feel Tibbot clinging to her for the briefest moment, just as he had as a little boy, and a sob caught in her throat. She turned and strode across the boards, quickly taking herself down the planks and well away before anyone might see that her face was wet with tears.

THE CURLEW HILLS lay before the Governor of Connaught, green and inviting, the late afternoon light shimmering with the promise of an easy passage and a decisive victory at Collooney.
The English need a clear victory in this war,
thought Conyers Clifford. Things had gone badly in Munster for Essex. The Yellow Ford and the debacle with Harrington in the Wicklow Mountains had all but ruined the army’s morale. And O’Donnell’s besiegement of Collooney, the last remaining castle guarding passage from Ulster into Connaught, had been a desperate blow. Winning it back, therefore, would make all the difference. He was pleased with the province ’s increasing affection for him. Normally ungenerous toward their English governors, the people of Connaught had gone so far as to dub his bare escape from Red Hugh’s forces at Ballyshannon “the Battle of the Heroes.” Now the same Irish bard who’d provided Clifford with the intelligence that had saved his and his army’s lives and reputation in that fight had sworn to him that except for the Collooney castle and its environs, the mountains on the way there were free from Red Hugh’s rebel forces—at least in any great numbers. His large, well-trained army snaked out behind him at the bottom of the hills. There was the vanguard and main body, and the rearguard, a fierce troop of John MacSweeny’s Gallowglass, and behind that a caravan of carts and wagons filled with enough arms and supplies to last them on their trek through Connaught till they could rendezvous with Tibbot Burke at Sligo. He would need those supplies, as well as the tools Tibbot was bringing to help him rebuild Sligo Castle, which was all but ruined.

Clifford’s vanguard commander, Alex Radcliff, had lately voiced his worries at relying for such a vital resupplying on a notorious Irish pirate.