Occasionally they would strike, fleeting but violent ambushes. First darts would come flying out of the bushes, taking out a man’s eye or panicking the horses. Then the rebels themselves, half naked, long shaggy forelocks covering their faces, would descend in a great wave with terrifying battle cries that made the blood run cold, wielding clubs and battle-axes and long pikes, though many were armed with guns. They fought like madmen, any lack of technique overcome by a crazed fervor. It seemed to Essex that when they did engage, the rebels
relished
fighting, the closer and more hand to hand the better. Just as quickly as they’d come, they would fly off, disappear like an army of wizards, back to their remote fastnesses, knowing the English could never pursue them across the moist, unfirm ground that they knew so well.
From a military standpoint, Essex was forced to admit, he had nothing to show for the last six weeks but several empty skirmishes and meaningless victories—if one could even call them victories. A castle might be taken, but later it would be retaken by the rebels. He might revictualize a garrison, but the local Irish would raid it after they’d left.
There had been one confrontation that might be called a campaign, this against Richard Tyrell’s horse at Cashel Pass. Here the enemy had actually engaged with them. Essex had, by all accounts, led his men bravely and even brilliantly, flying like lightning from the vanguard, to the battle, to the rear guard. But even Cashel had been no true triumph, for the confrontation was diminished by the Irish who not only claimed it a victory for
themselves
, but named the battle the “Pass of the Plumes,” denoting the many feathered helmets and hats the rebels had captured from their enemies when—so they’d said—the English had fled in terror.
Ironically, the reception Essex and his army had received in the few towns held by the earl of Ormond ’s English sympathizers had been splendid, with music and noble orations, cheers and garlands, the parade route strewn with flowers. But they had been hollow celebrations. There was nothing, after all, to celebrate. The territories that he and his armies marched through remained entirely unsubdued. Not one submission by a significant rebel chieftain had been obtained. And Essex’s army day after day was evaporating into the rotten Irish air.
In their campaign across Munster, which more and more felt like meaningless ramblings, they were confronted daily by the grim remains of English Ireland. Great houses and plantations had been deserted and looted, the fields scourged of crops and cattle. Bodies of English men, women, and children lay unburied and moldering by the side of the roads upon which the poor souls had attempted to run for safety to the nearest walled cities. And what Irish still roamed here had been stricken by famine. Their hollow eyes would peer out at him from behind the rubble of village walls, and when their skeletal faces were visible, he saw their mouths were stained bright green by the nettles and dock they were forced to eat in the absence of proper food. There had been stories of old women who would light fires in the fields on a cold morning, thereby lur-ing children to the warmth of the flames, only to murder the little ones and eat them, like proper witches would do. Essex chose not to believe those stories, sure they had been concocted by English soldiers out of misery and a growing hatred for this wretched land, and the poor savages inhabiting the destroyed countryside.
Now moving deeper into the green wilderness of Munster, Essex felt his physical strength diminish and his senses grow more vague and unaccountable, confused many times between fancy and fact. Most often in dark, misty nights he worried that he had been infected by the faerie thrall of Ireland, such that would lead him to madness and even death.
“Robert.” Essex was brought up sharply by his name being spoken.
“Are you deaf, man?” He turned. It was, thankfully, Southampton, but his face betrayed a story of tragedy waiting to be told.
“Oh, don’t tell me if it’s horrible, Southampton.” His friend now gathered himself into a soldierly demeanor and announced, “I’m afraid you have to hear this. Henry Harrington, in the Wicklow Mountains, was attempting a march back to Dublin—”
“Harrington had a large company of Irish soldiers under his command,” Essex said. “I warned him.”
“Attacked by the rebels, his Irish company turned and ran, but, my lord, the English troops were just as hopeless. They panicked altogether in the face of the enemy, many of them leaving their weapons behind. It is said that Harrington’s lieutenant never even dismounted in the fray.
He simply wrapped the colors round his body and fled on horseback.
One captain, Allerton, did try to rally our troops, riding amongst them shouting that they had only to turn back to the enemy to save their lives, but the men were dazed with fear. They broke and fled in every direction. We shall have to deal harshly with them when we return to Dublin.
Do you not agree?”
“Yes, of course we will.” Essex’s head had begun throbbing painfully.
“How long a march is it to Limerick from here?”
“With no engagements, two days. We can expect to be greeted there by a large round of festivities and—”
“I cannot bear another round of festivities,” Essex snapped. “I need a rest, Southampton. Quiet. I have to
think
. My army is melting away before my eyes. And I am as far away from Lough Foyle and my reason for coming to Ireland as I can possibly be.”
“Have you any word from Elizabeth on the reinforcements for the Ulster campaign?”
“Indeed I have. The queen has refused me.”
“How can she refuse you!”
“She says she will send no more men until she sees results with the ones already under my command. As for my taking Cahir Castle, that was nothing more than ‘wresting an Irish hold from a rabble of rogues.’ ”
“She ’s still angry with you for naming me your Horsemaster.”
“She is a petulant old fool.”
“But this is war!” Southampton cried. “For pity’s sake, can she not see what is at stake here?”
“She did give me high command of an enormous army—”
“Yet she continues to second-guess you, insult you, and tie your hands at every turn.”
“Indeed, I am armed on the breast, but not on the back.” Essex sighed. “The queen simply wishes that I never forget who rules whom.” Southampton was silenced by the truth of Essex’s statement and implied question, for if the answer was “Elizabeth,” his friend had truly lost his will and ambition. If the answer was “Essex,” he would be speaking nothing less than treason. “Well, to Limerick,” he said. “Perhaps we ’ll find some joy in the west of Ireland.” Essex was too depressed even to hope.
14
HOW MUCH MORE
of this will I be forced to endure?
thought Essex as his man Blakely lifted the heavy ceremonial mantle off his shoulders.
I am a soldier in the midst of war being feted by my
enemy. Were there precedents for such orgies of cynicism and hypocrisy?
From the window of his rooms at Limerick Castle, Essex could see the remnants of the water pageant that this morning had been held in his honor. Young girls in their green and saffron dancing frocks still strolled in twos and threes along the quay. Some of his officers whom he had used his vice-regal powers to knight that morning were strutting round looking very pleased with themselves. And even now a boatload of Irish chieftains who, on bended knee, had publicly surrendered to their new Lord Lieutenant an hour past were being rowed back to the vessels that would convey them home.
What was in the heart of even the most loyal Irish lord?
Essex wondered.
How much could they love the man who had been sent by his queen to conquer
them?
Even when Clanrickard and O’Connor Sligo knelt before him, men who had for so long been faithful to the Crown, he ’d attempted to look behind their eyes and into their souls to see the true nature of their sentiments. He was uncertain if he believed their protestations of loyalty or not, and this left him feeling vaguely uneasy. It had not been necessary to delve that deeply with The O’Flaherty or The O’Malley. These chieftains—fierce and brash and unashamedly rough—did not bother to hide their contempt for the highest-ranked nobleman ever sent to rule Ireland.
They were there for expediency’s sake only—no surprise in that—and, Essex guessed, laughed at their English “masters” behind their backs.
When, to the assembled crowd of dignitaries, the Mayor of Limerick had sung their new Lord Lieutenant’s praises, presenting him with the ceremonial mantle of the city, Essex had been aware of a subtle but audible grumbling amongst the chieftains. Perhaps it had been mention of the Essex name. His father, Walter, the first Lord Essex, was after all infamous in Ireland for his massacre at Rathlin Island. In an early attempt to prove English authority, he and Walter Raleigh had sailed into the community and in one afternoon slaughtered hundreds of old men, women, and children attempting to hide from their murderers in the island caves. Indeed, “Essex” was not a proud name to own in Ireland.
Essex had been engrossed in his thoughts and not heard the tapping at the door, nor even noticed when his man left off undressing him to answer it. It had startled him, therefore, to see Blakely standing before him with a wax-sealed letter. Essex opened the parchment. It was written in English in a bold hand.
My lord Essex,
Our mutual friend, Conyers Clifford, wishes us to meet. He assures me
that we will get on famously. I am at present in Limerick and very happily at your service.
Your friend,
Tibbot ne Long
Essex considered the message, and the note ’s tone. But more interesting still was the signature. Grace O’Malley’s son had signed, not Tibbot Burke, but Tibbot ne Long—“Tibbot of the Boats.” Did he mean to call attention away from his Burke heritage and his consistent attempts to grab the forbidden Burkes’ MacWilliamship? Or did he simply wish to call attention to his finest asset, his large fleet of galleys?
Or perhaps,
Essex mused,
he wishes me to be reminded of his maternal heritage
.
Surely Grace would have described to her son their very pleasant meetings in London five years before.
The prospect of a rendezvous with Tibbot, Essex realized, had quite suddenly cheered him. Here was a contemporary whose intimate history he knew, an educated man, ostensibly a loyalist who, it seemed by his note, wished to befriend him in this friendless country.
Essex moved to his desk, and scribbling a reply, handed it to Blakely, sending him to deliver it. Now back at the window he scanned the castle quay, eager to see if Tibbot ’s vessel was docked there, or farther out in the river where the ships of the lesser Irish nobility lay at anchor. Moments later Blakely came into view, note in hand, inquiring after Tibbot ne Long’s conveyance. He was pointed instantly to the largest galley docked there, and closest to the wharf—a slip reserved for a man of importance, thought Essex.
A place of honor
. He found himself unaccountably happy at the idea. Perhaps, he thought, this young man—rebel or loyalist—would prove a respite from his relentless melancholy.
As he pulled on his hose and his high kid boots, Robert Devereaux found himself, for the first time in many weeks, smiling.
ESSEX HAD ANNOUNCED himself at the dock and boarded the
Granuaile
. If he remembered correctly, this was the name given Grace O’Malley as a defiant young girl who’d just chopped off her hair—“Grace the Bald.” He could see it was a proud vessel in every respect, clean and polished, with a fit and varied crew—energetic boys, brawny young sailors, wiry, weathered old men—all of whom eyed this stranger with polite wariness. Tibbot Burke . . .
ne Long
—whatever he wished to be called—came striding forward. Tall, wide shouldered, and vital, he greeted the Lord Lieutenant with a formal bow, then broke into a broad grin.
“You are
most
welcome here, my lord Essex. I’ve long wished to make your acquaintance.”
“And I am told I would do well to make yours.”
To a sprightly older mate, Tibbot said, “Bring Lord Essex some wine, the Cadizian port.”
“Are you still importing Spanish wine?” Essex inquired mildly.
“No. But my mother is.”
This was spoken without even a hint of guile, but those few words, thought Essex, implied volumes about Grace O’Malley’s continued illicit dealings with Spain. But then her loyalty to the rebel cause was no secret to anyone.
“How does your mother?”
“She is very old and very well. She is never anything but strong and well. I’ve not met anyone else like her.”
“I have,” said Essex with a wry smile. “The Queen of England. She has the constitution of a Hereford bull.” Tibbot said, straightfaced, “I shall tell her you said so.” The two men’s burst of laughter was simultaneous and almost familiar, as though they had known each other from childhood.
“Come, let me show you round my ship,” said Tibbot, as eager as a boy. “We ’ll have a cup of wine in my cabin and then perhaps we can take her out, meet my small armada.”
Again, the choice of Tibbot’s words startled Essex
. “Armada” was distinctly Spanish.
“ ’Tis a fair day for a small voyage,” said Tibbot, regarding Essex with a studied gaze. “And you, my friend, look as though you could use the air.” YOUR VICTORY OVER Red Hugh O’Donnell and his MacWilliam at Tirawley was impressive,” said Essex. He leaned back in his chair, across the table from Tibbot in his captain’s cabin. “I’m told you drove Theobald Ciotach to such straits that he can no longer tell upon which elbow to lean.”
“ ’Twould have been impossible without Lord Clifford and his fourteen hundred men,” Tibbot said, draining his cup and refilling it for the third time. Essex, he noticed, at first had refused more than one drink. He was careful with his health. Perhaps the rumors were true that the man suffered from more than common fevers. But he was affable and extremely witty, just as his mother had described him, and in the end had accepted several cups of the good Spanish wine.
“In any event,” said Essex, “you’ve established yourself brilliantly in Connaught. You may lack the title, but you’ve the influence and power of a MacWilliam. Her Majesty is happy to have brought you to this place.”
“Let us speak candidly, my lord. Her Majesty had her own reasons to support my vendetta against Red Hugh and his false MacWilliam. She knows quite well that I am the only man who can rule ‘the unruly Burkes.’ And besides, my son is in English custody.”
“In Conyers Clifford’s home, I understand.” Tibbot smiled. “Happily for us all, with Bingham gone from Ireland.
If one must be a hostage, better to be one in the house of a friend. How old is
your
son, Essex?”
“Just seven.” He looked wistful. “I do not know him very well.” Tibbot was genuinely perplexed. “How is it that a father does not know his own son?”
Essex seemed thoughtful and, Tibbot observed, somehow ashamed.
“I have not made the time, I’m afraid—in the same way my father made little for me.” He grew silent, his gaze softening. “Either we become our parents,” he said, “or become their opposites.”
“Ah, a philosopher as well as a statesman . . . as well as a soldier.”
“You flatter me, Tibbot.”
“It seems we flatter each other, my lord.”
“I hope the flattery is sincere, and not born solely of our various ambitions.”
“I cannot deny my ambition.” Tibbot leaned forward and, filling Essex’s cup, looked him hard in the eye. “But I do believe in truth between friends.”
Essex regarded him carefully. “Are you saying you will always be truthful with me?”
“Aye, I will.” Tibbot hesitated for a long, thoughtful moment. “It’s just that the truth has a way of shifting about with the moment. And in Ireland just now, the moments come fast and furious.”
“Is it true that Red Hugh continues to court your favor?”
“Yes.”
“And that sometimes you consider his offers?”
“I do. But I haven’t forgiven him for having me jailed. I doubt if I ever will. And, frankly, the English perquisites are far more to my liking than his.”
“I understand the reasons you’ve chosen to be loyal to the Crown, but I cannot begin to imagine how that decision might cause you distress.
You must know that I met your mother.” Tibbot nodded. “She ’s a magnificent woman.”
“That she is.” Tibbot could feel a flush of pride rising in his cheeks.
“Do you not find it difficult to stomach her disapproval?”
“Spoken like the true son of a disapproving mother.” Essex smiled. “Actually,” he said, “I have been blessed with
two
ball-breaking mothers.”
“How is that?”
“The first is Lettice—Lady Blount—who bore me. She is quite . . .
indescribable.” Both men laughed at that, wine having loosened them considerably. Essex stood and removed his jacket, throwing it on the bed piled with fine wool and fur coverlets. He moved about the tiny cabin, openly examining the surroundings. Polished wood, mariners’ maps and rutters, nautical instruments. “And then there is the queen,” Essex added. He paused, momentarily overcome by this thought, then turned back and regarded Tibbot quizzically. “She is in many ways more a mother to me than Lettice.”
Tibbot could not hide his surprise. “I know ’tis bold of me to say, but were you and the queen not lovers? That is the widespread rumor.” Essex’s answer was distinctly wry. “It can be said that Oedipus had nothing on me.”
Tibbot shook his head, bemused. “I somehow feel I should press you no further on that subject.”
“No, no. You and I seem to suffer a similar dilemma. I
adore
Elizabeth. To be fair, she has single-handedly made me what I am.”
“As my mother ‘graced’ me.”
“Exactly. We both receive great love and devotion from our ‘mothers.’ ” Essex sat down and reached for his cup. “Yet every day by our contrary actions we risk their wrath, which—I have no need to tell you—is considerable.”
Both men fell silent, lost in drunken contemplation.
“In the end,” Tibbot finally said, “for better or worse in this conflict, I shall, I
must
seek survival for myself and my family. I believe my mother understands that, wishes the best for me.” Tibbot held Essex’s eyes. “What do you seek for yourself, Essex, and does
your
mother wish you well?”
Essex was completely silenced by the question.
Tibbot shifted in his chair. “Now I
have
gone too far.”
“No,” said Essex gently. “I can answer. Aside from the obvious—triumph over Tyrone—I have not the vaguest idea what I seek for my life.
As far as the queen wishing me well, I more than ever think not. And when I hear myself uttering those words, I find them very alarming indeed.”
“In that case,” said Tibbot, giving Essex’s arm a good-natured slap,
“you’d better have another drink. Maybe two.”
“A fine idea.”
With a tipsy smile Tibbot tipped the flagon over Essex’s cup and at the moment they both realized it was empty, there came a sharp rapping at the cabin door and a muffled voice calling, “Do you need more wine, Captain?”
The pair exchanged delighted smiles.
“Come in then!” Tibbot called at the door.
“I thought you might be runnin’ low,” said the sailor, entering the room. Essex had not bothered to look up as the jug was set on the table between them. “I took the liberty of substitutin’ the port for a malmsey.
I thought the Lord Lieutenant might enjoy a bit of sweetness.” In his inebriation it took Essex a moment to discern the overt familiarity with which the sailor addressed his captain. When he looked up, he was staring into a face he had never expected to see.
“Grace O’Malley, by God! You haven’t aged at all!”
“A fine compliment and a complete lie. You look handsome as ever, Robert but far too peaked for my tastes.”
“I’ve not been well,” Essex admitted somewhat ashamedly.
“You English do poorly in the Irish clime, or is it the pox, as rumor tells it?” Grace observed Essex’s startled expression. “Pardon me, but I’m far too old to mince words. And I only mention it as I’ve remedies for that malady brought from Spain—remedies said to work wonders.” “I’m on a course of treatment at present, but worry at its efficacy. I should be grateful to try something new.” Essex was staring unabashedly at Grace.
“You’re gapin’ at me like I’ve two noses on my face.”
“Forgive me. It just occurs to me that if I were doing my proper duty just now—”
“You’d be roastin’ my feet over hot coals,” she finished for him.
“Yes. Demanding to know when the Spanish troops Tyrone hired will arrive to fight alongside him.”
“You could demand until the cows come home, Robert, but I couldn’t tell you even if I wished to—which I don’t—for I don’t know. My job was to
request
them. The rest . . . well, the rest is in the hands of the new King of Spain, and the gods of wind and water. So tell me, how is that old bat you work for?”
Essex choked back a laugh.
“Mam!” Tibbot whispered in warning.
“Don’t shush me, son. Robert here knows how intimate I am with the queen, and she with me. He listened two nights to our conversations from behind a door.”
Essex glowed red with embarrassment. “Was I so transparent?”
“I would have done the same had I been you. Indeed, you would have been a fool, given such a chance, if you’d
not
listened. You are many things, Robert Devereaux, but a fool is not one of them.” Essex tried composing himself, but the wine had loosened his tongue. “Her Majesty is very unhappy just now,” he began. “This once-minor rebellion has run away from her like a team of spooked horses, to become a proper war. But Elizabeth loathes war, for it forces her to levy taxes on her people. When the people are taxed, they cease to love her—or so she believes. Above all, Elizabeth lives for the love of her subjects. Therefore, war bestirs in her the most violent of emotions.
Yes, she is determined to win in Ireland. To
rule
Ireland before she dies.”
Grace asked sincerely, “Do you think she ’ll succeed?” Tibbot was on the edge of his chair, his own movements and fate entwined in the answer.
“The queen,” Essex began, his eyes unfocused, his words beginning to slur, “always gets what she wants. She has committed every resource at her command to ensure victory. But,” he continued, “she has sent
me
to do her bidding.” He regarded Grace with a hangdog expression. “I am so unwell.”
“Tibbot,” she said, “why don’t you go up and tell them to head north to Bofin.”
Without a word he left the cabin, shutting the door behind him.
Grace placed her hand over Essex’s own and spoke to him gently.
“You’re in a miserable condition, son. I doubt I’ve ever seen anyone more in need of a respite. Why don’t you let us take you away from all your troubles, just for the day.”
“How do you mean, ‘take me away’?”
“Look,” said Grace, “do you trust me?”
He held her eyes, which, despite her age, were still bright and twinkling.
“I should not . . . but I believe I do.”
“Then let’s forget about the war. Just till tomorrow. Let me show you somethin’. Let me show you Ireland.”
“But I’ve seen—”
“I know what you’ve seen. And it ’s half the reason you’re sick in your soul. I want to show you a different Ireland. A different people. Just for today you’ll forget who you are. A little touch of Irish magic”—she snapped her fingers—“and the Earl of Essex is no more.” He felt himself begin to smile. “Who am I then?”
“Just a friend of mine, from Italy perhaps. When you speak to me, speak in Latin. Most here speak Irish and nothin’ else, but at least they’ll never know you’re English. What do you say? Will you do it?” Essex regarded Grace with amused disbelief. “All right,” he said, “I hereby place myself in your capable hands.”
“Good!” Grace pounded her fist on the table and stood. “Well, first things first. Out of your dandified clothes, for they’re a dead giveaway.
You look to be about Tibbot’s size.” She threw open her son’s cupboard.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a linen shirt and plain brown doublet at Essex, “give these a try.”