The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (47 page)

“You’ll stay here,” Essex announced, trancelike. “I’m going down.”

“What?” Southampton cried. “Robert, you cannot be serious.”

“I’m altogether serious. O’Neill has made his wishes known and I shall honor them.”

O’Neill?
thought Southampton. Robert had called Tyrone by his Irish name. What had gotten into him? “Essex.” He grabbed for his friend ’s arm. “You cannot meet this man unaccompanied. You know what they’re saying about you in London. Everyone is suspicious of you as it is. At best, a private conversation with Tyrone would be thought foolish.

At worse, treasonous.”

“He is a reasonable man,” said Essex, releasing himself from Southampton’s grip.

“Reasonable!” cried Blount, exasperated.

But Essex’s mount was already traversing down the hillside, leaving his men behind.

“He ’s gone mad,” said Blount.

Southampton stared, confounded, and realized with a sharp stab of grief how completely he agreed with Christopher’s assessment of their dear friend.

Robert Devereaux, Earl of Essex, had finally lost his mind.

HE HAD NEVER KNOWN such sweet joyousness nor clarity of mind as he now felt, approaching the bank of the Bellaclynth Ford.

The rushing stream crisped the air and the sunlight sparkling on its rippled surface brought a smile to his face. Even sight of O’Neill sitting high on his horse in the center of the Lagan River pleased Essex, for he saw not the Irish traitor and England’s enemy, but the scene of his own Fate, a chance—perhaps the last of his life—to achieve something of true greatness.

O’Neill, even in his armor, was by no means a brawny man, but the sheer force of will that shone from his strong, handsome face enlarged him. And the patience and steely control behind his eyes would as easily inspire loyalty from his men as strike terror into the hearts of his enemies. Now, as Essex approached, reining his horse on the dry river edge, he saw O’Neill fold one gloved hand over the other, and dip his head in respect, a gesture so humble, so unexpected that Essex was forced to stifle a small cry of surprise.
A reasonable man,
Grace O’Malley had called him.
Grace O’Malley in the flesh,
he mused, continuing to take the measure of this man,
or a phantom called to him by a fever of the
brain?

Who would speak first? he wondered, and would O’Neill prove himself great or merely the “great dissembler,” as he was known at the English Court?

“My lord Essex, I salute you,” came the deep, gravelly voice across the water. O’Neill was working with his muscular legs to keep the horse beneath him steady in the fast-moving water.

“And I you, my lord O’Neill.”

Essex saw an eyebrow arch in surprise. Respect had been met and matched with respect.

“Did you know I fought for your father in Ulster when I was a young man?” said the rebel.

“I’d heard as much.”

“In those days I thought nothing of pledging my allegiance to the Crown if it behooved me.”

“What has changed?”

O’Neill shifted in his saddle. “The stakes,” he replied. “Back then I fought for my birthright, a title I believed had been stolen from me. I fought in revenge for the murders of my father and brother. These reasons seem petty now. Today the soul of Ireland is at stake.” He paused for a moment before he said, “Once upon a time your Elizabeth was a great queen.”

Essex found himself bristling at O’Neill’s words. This surprised him, for they were recently his own unspoken sentiments.

“Once she possessed a clear knowledge of the world, understood what was in men’s hearts,” O’Neill continued. “She commanded the love of her lowest subjects and highest nobles. But she ’s grown cold in her heart, lost that part of her that was kind and human. She is altogether blind to the grief she causes in the world. Her greatness is eclipsed by her follies. And her greatest folly, her downfall, is Ireland.”

“Elizabeth wished desperately to believe in your loyalty.”

“Aye. She believed I
owed
her loyalty, that because I’d spent my blood for her, kept quiet for thirty years, that I was bound to serve her all my life. She believed that she had been generous to me. But Her Majesty never gave me anything but what belonged to me already, and often supported my enemies against me. As for what I’ve gotten, I got it by my own scratching of the world, and not from her goodness. It shocks her that I now have my own demands, offends her that she has been forced to listen to them.” O’Neill skewered Essex with his eyes. “My lord, any battle fought here today will be little more than a massacre.”

“I know that,” said Essex. The next words came hard, though he had practiced them a hundred times since waking. “We shall have no fight today.”
There! The words were out. Capitulation.
Then Essex saw O’Neill sag almost imperceptibly. The Irish chieftain’s expression, however, remained firm and implacable.

“My I speak plainly, Essex?”

“You have done till this moment. Why do otherwise?” O’Neill allowed himself a smile. “I have been in correspondence with the King of Scotland. James, as we all know—but are prohibited from saying aloud—is Elizabeth’s successor. Your queen is very close to her end. James, when he comes to the English throne, is prepared to be far more lenient with Ireland than Elizabeth has been.”

“So you are saying we have only to wait for Elizabeth to die to see peace in Ireland?”

“Perhaps not so long as that,” O’Neill replied.

“How?”

“Conclude a truce here with me today.”

Essex felt himself shaking. He ’d been prepared to negotiate with O’Neill. Understood his own position of weakness. He had even taken pleasure in his thoughts of avoiding bloodshed.
But a truce . . .

“Your expression tells me you’re a stranger to making peace.”

“I will not deny it,” said Essex.

“If you loved this country as I do, Essex, if you felt the breadth and depth of its suffering, you would be more willing.”

“I do feel its suffering!” Essex cried out unexpectedly, horrified to feel his eyes filling with tears. He whispered, “More than you know.” O’Neill spoke gently so that Essex was forced to strain to hear him across the rushing water. “Then you would make peace with me here, today?”

Essex hesitated for only a moment more, then nodded slowly.

O’Neill’s face reddened with emotion. “Though you may find it hard to believe, my lord, there is great honor to be found in making peace.

’Tis far easier to wage war—an old habit so difficult to break. You own more courage than I ever dreamed you to have. Perhaps ’tis why our friend Grace O’Malley speaks so highly of you. So, we have decided! I see your men waiting yonder. Bring them down and I will bring mine.

We ’ll set the terms of the truce and you can send your men to a much deserved rest, not their graves.”

Essex, who had remained all this time on the dry shore across from O’Neill, now urged his horse forward into the glittering river. There was magic in the moment, he thought with a smile—
Irish magic
—and a fullness in his heart that he had never known. The two soldiers, side by side, clasped one another, hand and arm, and with one rough shake gave their word . . . and made peace in Ireland.

An honorable peace
, thought Essex, the music of moving water beneath him becoming a roar.
He would convince them all—peace before
war. Life before death. It was good and right and nothing would sway him
from his course.

SHE HAD WAITED until noon on the deck of the
Owl
, anchored in the harbor at Louth, gazing inland toward the low hills. She watched for the first tendrils of smoke that might grow into the thick pall of burnt powder that hung over a battlefield, listened for the booming of cannon, the pop of musket fire. But all was calm and quiet. When at last she concluded that there would be no fighting this day, she gave the signal to weigh anchor, and it was passed to all the ships in her fleet bobbing on the water round the
Owl
. Grace knew she should be feeling relief.

She ’d accomplished the impossible. Essex had backed down. On the long awaited day that the two great armies were to have met and clashed, no blood would spill. No widows would be made. No orphans. Why then did her heart feel so heavy? It was temporary, this peace. She knew that, of course. It was something else that burned her eyes, ached her chest.

’Twas the thought of Robert Devereaux lying on his cot—that fevered face, brown eyes so trusting . . .

Stop!
she ordered herself.
Pull yourself together.
Essex was a good-hearted man but he was still the enemy. When he was gone there ’d be another English murderer to take his place.
Rejoice, damnit!
she ordered herself.
You’ve stopped the bloodshed, if only for a day.

The oarsmen picked up speed and the
Owll
led Grace O’Malley’s fleet out of Louth Harbor. They were bound for Scotland, a force of Ineen Dubh’s Gallowglass reinforcements waiting there.

Was she any better than Tibbot?
she wondered suddenly—he, one moment loyal to the English, the next Ireland. And here she was, espous-ing peace not twelve hours ago, now en route to transport an army of mad Scotsmen to the battlefield.
Shite! The war has made hypocrites of us
all. Well
, she thought, moving up the aisle between the sweeps and taking her place at the wheel,
there’s nothing to be done about it except to put
one foot in front of the other and pray that the world goes no crazier than it
already has.

GOOD CHRIST,
what have I done?

Essex sat paralyzed in the saddle watching the great parade of his army retreating out of Dundalk. All of yesterday’s elation had evaporated into the warm September morning, leaving him cringing with fear and desperation.
What had changed?
Yesterday it had all seemed perfectly sensible, allowing O’Neill and his people peace and freedom.

Essex had been generous, but it had seemed, at the time, not overly generous. The truce had simply granted to the Irish confederates all territories that they then possessed, free passage in and out of their country, and a guarantee that no new English garrisons were to hereafter be raised in Ireland. O’Neill had promised in return a cessation of fighting for six weeks to six months, with notice given fourteen days in advance if he would wish to begin again, such periods renewable indefinitely. The rebel had been made to swear a verbal oath for keeping the agreement, whereas Essex had merely signed his name. The entire day had been a sweet dream filled with brotherhood and goodwill, and he ’d gently scoffed at Blount and Southampton’s horrified remonstrances that such a truce was suicidal.

That if Essex signed it, his career at Elizabeth’s Court would be finished.

This morning the light of a new day had illuminated the truth of their words and the awful depth of his folly. It had not been peace that he had bargained for, but defeat, dishonor. And now he was sick with shame at the travesty he had committed. Even the grateful smiles and passionate salutes of his soldiers as they passed left him cold. Worse were the cheers as he moved through clutches of Irish peasants. Women rushed forward to kiss his hands and feet. Their shouts and frenzied mutterings were unintelligible Gaelic, but he knew they must be crying out God’s blessings on him, their English savior.

How had this happened?
He was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, England ’s most revered hero and favorite of the queen. Had he lost his mind to Ireland ’s faerie thrall as so many before him had? Had he fallen under a witch’s spell?

Suddenly the visage of Grace O’Malley rose before him, sun-browned and wrinkled skin, eyes unnaturally bright. She had come to Essex when he was ill, delirious with fever. Perhaps she ’d been real, perhaps a specter. In any event she had shifted his will, softened his heart toward the enemy. The wily old cunt had bewitched him!

The thought stunned him, then infuriated him, and suddenly his skin was crawling, his clothes confining. He wished to rip them off his body and bathe in a clear, purifying stream, bathe away the revulsion, the filthy Irish infection that had sickened him,
ruined
him. His horse sensed his master’s discomfiture and began to dance under him.

“Whoa!”

Essex sought to steady him, but the beast could not be comforted. He reared sharply and it was only with the greatest effort that Essex kept the saddle.

The commotion drew Southampton’s attention and he rode quickly to Essex’s side. He was still scowling, and there was only the merest hint of sympathy in his voice. “Are you all right?” he said.

“Far from it,” Essex replied, reining his horse in hard.

Together, in silence, they watched the retreating army.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Essex said, finally.

Southampton’s laugh was derisive. “A bit late to realize that.”

“What shall I do? What
can
I do?”

“Christopher says we should pick a thousand of your best soldiers, ride to London, gathering reinforcements on the way, and take the throne from the queen . . .”

“What?”

“. . . being sure to first remove Robert Cecil, of course.” Essex laughed miserably. “Oh that I could.”

“So you’ve come to your senses.”

“I have, and now forced to view my ‘accomplishments,’ wish that I could lose them again.” Essex sighed. “I must see Elizabeth. Explain my actions.”

“How? She ’s forbidden you to return to London without notice.”

“She has no authority to keep me out.”

“No authority?”

“I am Viceroy of Ireland, the highest earl in England.”

“And soon to be the most disgraced.”

“Not if I can speak privately to the queen. I’ll name Loftus and Carew as my deputies here, and leave Tom Ormond in charge of the army. I want you with me.”

“And Christopher?”

“Too hotheaded, and even less loved by the queen than you are. I need a strong, steady guard. And no one must know we ’re coming.” Southampton sighed. “I fear ’tis too late. The damage has been done—so grand an expedition come to so impotent an end.”