The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (48 page)

“I don’t need reminding! Be a pillar for me,
please!
” Southampton looked suddenly contrite. “Forgive me, Robert. You know I’m with you.”

Essex was close to weeping. “
I
am the one who needs forgiving.

You’ve been nothing but loyal, and I’ve dragged you down with me.”

“No. You’re not finished. This is not your fate, Robert. We ’ll go to London and make it right again.”

Essex’s eyes glittered with grateful tears. “Thank you.” He grasped Southampton’s hand. “She ’ll listen to me, won’t she?”

“Of course she will. The queen never stopped loving you.” These last were words Essex longed to hear. But he realized with a painful tightening of his throat that he could not be sure if they were true. Had Elizabeth sent him to Ireland as England ’s last and best hope for ending the rebellion, or had she simply tired of him, his childish tantrums, hoping to rid herself of the “wild horse” she had finally realized she could never tame?

There was only one way of finding out—seeing her face-to-face.

Reminding her of the love they had shared and his devotion to her that, despite her miserable treatment of him, he still held in his heart. He would ride for London before anyone else could begin whispering in her ear, planting dangerous seeds with words like “cowardice” and

“betrayal” and “treason.” He would ride tonight, and with God as his helper, Robert Devereaux would save his own life.

THE CHANNEL CROSSING and a four-day hard ride across the English isle, with scarce time for sleep, had blurred into a never-ending nightmare, as fraught with anxious fretting as chills and saddle sores. The weather had been frightful the whole time, and Essex’s mud splattered band of rough and ready swordsmen had struggled to lift their leader’s spirits with fiery talk of rebellion, raucous laughter, and curses at their enemies shouted into the wind.

Essex was nearly certain that his hasty exit from Ireland had preceded any outbound messengers, but when his party reached London at dawn to ferry across the Thames at Lambeth Crossing, the ferryman—a prodigious gossip—announced that Lord Grey had just made the previous crossing. He ’d been in a great hurry, on his way to Court, now sitting ten miles south at Nonsuch, and was puffed up with some important news he was bringing the queen. Grey was one of Cecil’s men. The thought of his reaching the palace before Essex so alarmed him that on reaching the river’s south shore he had refused to wait for his own party’s horses to be conveyed across, and commandeered half a dozen mounts waiting there for the return of their owners from London.

“Their owners will be seen to!” Essex cried to the ferryman as he and his men galloped away.

“Let me ride ahead,” Christopher Lawrence urged. He was the youngest and strongest of the group. “I’ll catch Lord Grey up and reason with him.” He raced off but soon returned, angry and disgruntled.

“Well?” Essex demanded.

“One of Grey’s men was at Holyhead when we landed. He is indeed riding to Court with news of your return. I begged him to hang back and allow the Earl of Essex to announce his own arrival, but he refused, indeed refused very rudely.”

“If we ride hard, might we overtake him?” Essex asked.

“I think not, my lord. Not all of us. But I could catch him up once more, and if he again refuses to stop, I’ll simply kill him.”

“That will shut him up,” cried Peter Westin.

“And I’ll have a go at the hunchback when we get to Nonsuch!” added Southampton.

The men laughed, approving the bloodthirsty plans.

“No,” Essex insisted, “let us just ride as quickly as we can.” When Essex and his men reached Nonsuch, the fairy-tale palace that was, of all Elizabeth’s residences, her favorite, it appeared from the shocked greetings of the guards, ladies, and courtiers he met that Grey’s intelligence on the Lord Lieutenant’s unexpected return from Ireland had not yet permeated the Court. Perhaps it had not reached the queen either.

Essex bounded up the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking a cham-bermaid off her feet. It was only then that he realized he stank of sweat—his own and his horse ’s—and that he was covered hat to boot in caked mud. He grabbed at his long beard and found it studded with bits of leaves and twigs.
I must look a fright
, he thought then, but by now he was mad with desperation to see the queen. He pushed open the doors to the Presence Chamber, not waiting for the startled guards to do it for him. Courtiers were already lining up for the queen’s morning appearance. Guards at the next door—the Privy Council Chamber—saw Essex coming, his sword clanking at his side, but the expression on his face brooked no argument, said, “
If you do not open these doors, I shall crash
through them closed,
and they flung open the doors quickly.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he faced down the final pair of guards at the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. The two soldiers had time to exchange a wondering glance before Essex, with unnatural strength, pushed them both aside, moved through the doors, and, turning quickly, locked them from the inside. He could hear the ladies’ shrieks and frightened fluttering, smell the perfumes and powders, and the scent that was particularly Elizabeth’s. He took only one breath to calm himself before he turned to face her.

There sat the queen, bony arms and shoulders poking out from a thin nightdress. She was not long up from the bed, he could see, neither dressed nor powdered nor coiffed. Indeed, she was wigless, her skull barely covered with wisps of graying hair. She clutched the claw arms of the chair with her long pale fingers. Her eyes were as round as saucers, and without benefit of wig, jewels, and paint, her nose was large and sharp as a beak. The expression on Elizabeth’s wrinkled, faintly pockmarked face—except that she clearly had no previous knowledge of Essex’s return—was wholly unreadable. But suffering his extraordinary passion, after so arduous a journey, about to finally kneel at her feet and pour out his heart, he was at that moment sure the expression was one of delight. He failed to consider what impression he was making. Not only was he entirely unexpected, mud soaked, sweating, and wild-eyed, but worse, Essex was fully armed and perhaps dangerous. Had his thoughts been clearer he would have known the queen would be wondering why her many guards had not stopped him. Perhaps thinking he had come to take her hostage. Come to murder her. Considering that the palace might even be surrounded by rebels.

Essex, completely oblivious, fell on his knees and, grabbing both of Elizabeth’s hands, kissed them with mad fervency. She was still as a stone as he spoke, almost raving. “Oh, Majesty, Majesty! The sight of you warms my chilly heart. I know I am unexpected here. I know you for-bade my return without notice, but I
had
to come this way. Too much has happened!” Essex paused, suddenly remembering he still wore his hat.

He tore it off but found himself tongue-tied, not knowing how he should begin explaining himself. Just then he felt the queen’s gentle hand on the crown of his head, pressing down the damp, matted hair. A relieved sob escaped him, and he felt his eyes fill with tears. He laid his head down like a child on his mother’s knee, and allowed himself to weep.

Southampton had been right
, he thought, his body softening under Elizabeth’s touch.
She had never stopped loving him. She would hear him
out. She would be cross, of course, but she would understand how and why he
had come to grief in Ireland, signed an unsanctioned treaty with Tyrone. He
had been right to fly to her—great Gloriana. He would find his way back into
her heart. Begin again, more humbly this time.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his heart bursting with love. “Elizabeth.” Blinded by his tears and joy, Essex could see neither the queen’s lips clamping grimly into a straight line nor her eyes, cold as a snake ’s, gazing down at her once proud Robin’s filthy neck.

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AGITATION WAS A STATE that Grace O’Malley was altogether unused to suffering. But agitated she was, her nerves frayed, her mien snappish.
But who could blame her?
she thought to herself. Here she was, once again sailing into the heart of England, her enemies teeming all round her on both shores of the Thames. She knew if they chanced to find the infamous Irish rebel woman making for their precious queen, they would rip her limb from limb, not bothering to stop and hang her first. For Grace O’Malley was known to the English as a notorious traitor, succubus to the demon Tyrone—who was the wildest Irish of them all.

But it was not thoughts of her own death that were driving her into a frenzy, she realized, watching the bustle along the docks of the river’s north shore, rather the chance that the mission bringing her here today might fail, and the only blood spilled would be Robert Devereux’s. And if she were honest, she ’d admit she was racked with guilt, another emotion as foreign to her as a Turk’s turban. Altogether, her worries had her literally trembling in her boots. “Get hold of yourself, woman!” she said aloud, not minding who might hear.

The sinister walls of the Tower of London rose before Grace, a further challenge to her temper. ’Twas here that the object of her clandestine visit was now residing as a prisoner, awaiting “the queen’s pleasure” as to his fate. Poor Essex. It had been
her
doing, Grace ’s interference in the course of his life that had brought him to the shores of doom. No doubt he had added to his troubles by his own words and deeds, but the truce with O’Neill had been the first breach in his ship’s fragile hull, and now it was sinking fast in the seething currents of English politics.

Sharks were already gathering and not a drop of blood had yet been spilt.

And not one man or woman of influence had come forth to speak up for Robert Devereaux, not a single soul. So the job had fallen to her—the very siren who had sung him onto the treacherous shoals, convinced him of an action thought wise only by his enemies. An action that had brought down on him such scorn and humiliation in England that his mind, already beset by devils, had slowly begun to unravel. It had to be so, thought Grace.
He had tried to seize the English throne in his own rebellion
. Had tried and failed.

Now he was behind those hideous gray walls, awaiting word of Elizabeth’s signature on his death warrant. What torments must the dear man be suffering? He was a tender soul under the leathery skin of the soldier. A sweet and passionate man who had needed scant urging to resist expediency and do the right thing. He doubtless thought it was wrong now. Probably cursed her advice, believed he ’d been taken unfair advantage of at a time when he was weak and ill.

Well, the truth of it was that he
had
been taken advantage of, but Grace had had no choice. She ’d done what she had to do to save lives in Ireland.
Did he know how beloved he was to the Irish people?
she wondered.

His name was spoken aloud with such reverence, and ballads were sung of the great English general who’d waged peace, not war, on Ireland.

Perhaps such knowledge would not ease his mind. Perhaps ’twould only anger him more.

All these ruminations were crowding and jostling in Grace ’s brain, the very cause of her agitation. The only thought that kept her steady was the chance that she could save him. Speak with the queen, beg mercy from the only person who could stay the traitor’s death—as horrible an end as the Devil himself could devise.

Of course the Devil was still stalking Ireland, though she was resisting fiercely. Grace had lately found growing in her breast a never before felt pride in her countrymen and -women. They had once been members of divers clans living their lives in far-flung provinces, their minds set on nothing more consequential than churning butter and cattle raiding from their neighbors. Now gathered in the strong arms of Hugh O’Neill—a great family united—the Irish fought as one, and their victories against England were as numerous as they were startling. Essex’s truce had held for three months, but everyone had known it would not last,
could
not last. Lines had been drawn in the sand, and those lines were crossed every day. O’Neill was raiding deep into the Pale and even that English bastion, Dublin, was under constant attack.

But the ravening English meant to have their way with their poor cousins. Elizabeth had given the Irish command to Lord Mountjoy—

Grace understood he was Robert’s sister’s lover—and the man had surprisingly proven a fearsome opponent. Mountjoy held to the belief that his best weapon was the slashing and burning of the countryside. His own troops could be revictualized from without, he reasoned, but the Irish—with neither crops nor cattle to feed them—would surely fall.

And he had somehow roused the courage in the once cowardly ranks and they now rarely ran away from a fight. Indeed, the Crown’s army could be praised for its discipline and even eagerness to do battle. In one Ulster field the English had routed the rebels from their trenches and killed three hundred, while only twenty of their kind had died.

Then Mountjoy invaded Ulster by sea, landing four thousand troops in the far north at Lough Foyle, and they’d given Red Hugh O’Donnell much more than a bloody nose. Even O’Neill’s supremacy in Munster had been crumbling as Mountjoy’s army took back one southern city after another.

But the great shining hope, that which kept the rebels fighting with such uncommon courage, was young King Philip’s promise of a huge army to be sent to Ireland’s shores. The thought of Spanish soldiers—

the most fearsome fighting men in the world—fighting alongside the Irish made the rebels strong. “Just hold on!” was the cry. “Help is on the way!” Of course ’twas this promised help that drove Elizabeth insane, the thought of her old enemy joined with the new, against her. The bone-chilling terror that the invasion which, by Fate ’s intervention, had failed in ’88, would now be accomplished through the “back door” of Ireland.

Grace ’s own life had continued its shattering under the English occupation. Even with the blighted Richard Bingham dead—he ’d returned once more, this time to govern Ulster, and been struck down by disease—her losses had yet mounted. Tibbot was all but lost to her. Like a dog with a roasted bone, he ’d fought Red Hugh’s MacWilliam whenever a fight could be found. Her son had finally, in a stroke he believed brilliant, gone to the Rath of Eassacaoide and with the Burke clans gathered there, crowned a MacWilliam of his own choice. But to everyone ’s surprise it had not been himself upon whom he bestowed the long coveted title, as Henry VIII had crowned himself the Pope in England. Tibbot named Margaret and Devil’s Hook’s son, Richard Burke. The two MacWilliams—Red Hugh’s and Tibbot’s—thereafter battled each other in endless skirmishes that failed, always failed, to change the complexion of Connaught.