Lord Of The Isle

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“Delicious.” Morgana looked up from her soup to the basket his hand held so close to her. The five different breads all appealed to her. She choose the nearest, a plump rye loaf no bigger than her fist. Now that the edge was off her hunger, she remembered her manners, asking, “What made you bring the tray to me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m checking on you,” Hugh replied easily. He set the basket down and raised his hand to her chin, turning her face toward the lighted candles.

“Even with a black eye, you are pretty to behold.” Oblivious of her hunger, he held on to her chin as his right hand took the supreme pleasure of tracing and smoothing her eyebrow, where the worst bruising remained.

Unlike the grand ladies of the queen’s court he’d bedded and never regretted leaving, Hugh knew he could never be immune to her eyes, were they ever to fix upon him with even the slightest trace of heat or desire.

He gently traced the boundary of the bruise across her cheekbone. “Does this hurt?”

Morgana frowned. “No, of course not. I have black eyes all the time. I’m used to them.”

“Tsk.” Hugh clicked his tongue, releasing her chin so that she could resume consuming her meal. “Such waspish sarcasm is not very becoming, Lady Morgana. I feel rather certain you’ve been trained to do better.”

“When did I get the promotion? I was plain Morgana when you introduced me to your sisters.” His scold didn’t stop Morgana from taking another shot.

“No, you were never plain Morgana. I’ve had time to look up a few references lying about my study. You are Lady Morgana Fitzgerald, oldest daughter of the exiled earl of Kildare, James FitzMaurice Fitzgerald. By some curious twists of fate, I also know you entered the Arroasian novitiate at Saint Mary de Hogges’s Abbey in March of 1569. Four months later, your father fled Ireland for France.”

He was right, but Morgana wanted to know how he had learned those facts. “What makes you so certain of that?”

“I have copies of all the convent rosters, from Sussex’s articles of dissolution, through 1574. In fact, I have rosters of all the monasteries and abbeys in Ireland, including the justicar’s official valuation of the properties seized for the crown.” Hugh took his time forming his next words. “I also know that you have two brothers that your father was also forced to leave behind. It’s very dangerous to be a boy named Fitzgerald in this clime, isn’t it, Morgana?”

She sat very straight, her marvelous blue eyes so cold with suspicion that Hugh feared he’d done more than upset her digestion. He was very glad he’d disarmed her, and doubly glad he’d insisted there be no knife of any kind put on the tray.

“What is the price of your silence?” she asked.

“My silence?” Hugh frowned, distracted and not following her reasoning.

Her chest rose and fell deeply three times before he picked up his goblet and drank from it. Hugh withstood the temptation to look again at the lovely white mounds of her breasts swelling over the gray gown’s neckline. It would be better if he kept firm control over his passions—at least for the moment. She’d been brutalized this very night, and he wasn’t such a scoundrel that he’d take advantage of her now. His body responded otherwise, reacting like a randy goat’s to her abundant physical attributes.

“I said, what’s your point? Or should I say, what is your price for silence?”

“Ah, you think I would stoop that low, milady? Blackmail you? I am not an unconscionable bastard.”

“Aren’t you? You are the O’Neill, aren’t you?”

“The O’Neill?” Hugh laughed.

“Your men claimed you are he.”

Hugh laughed bluntly. “That is wishful thinking on their part. I am most certainly not the O’Neill. If I were, I’d have run my sword through James Kelly’s belly and left him staked out for the carrion crows to pick the meat off his bones. I am no more than Hugh O’Neill, lately the good-conduct hostage of clan O’Neill at Her Majesty’s court in London.

“Thanks to interference from the powers across the water, there will never be another revered as the O’Neill. As I, might add, there will never be another Fitzgerald earl of Kildare. A right pity it is, too.”

Digging into the soup, Morgana asked, “How so?”

“It took the English five hundred years to establish a toehold on our island. But it has taken we Irish only two generations to destroy ourselves. Lift your goblet, Morgana of Kildare, and drink with me to a dying land. Erin’s death throes surround us. Yet no one sees what is as plain as the noses on each other’s faces.”

Morgana swallowed and carefully laid the silver spoon down on the table. “I don’t follow you.”

“I think you do.” Hugh picked up her full goblet and put it in her hand. “Tell me, Morgana, late of Kildare, when someone asks you what country you claim allegiance to, what do you say? ‘I’m Irish’? Is that your answer?”

“No. Of course not,” Morgana answered immediately. “I’m not Irish, I’m English.”

“Yet you were born in Maynooth castle in county Kildare, Ireland. Your father was also born at Maynooth, and his father and his father going back twelve generations, to the year 1069. How much more Irish do you have to be?”

Morgana broke the small loaf of bread in her hands and bit into it, chewing on the tough bread as if it were dried meat. “You Irish don’t accept us.”

“And the English do?” Hugh lifted a skeptical brow. “You told my housekeeper that you’ve never been to England. Is that true?”

“And if it isn’t, am I to be cast out into the night? Will you take the food from my mouth and the clothes from my back?”

Hugh brought his fist down on the table, making candles jump and goblets totter. “Woman, don’t you dare sit there accusing me of cruelties to you! It was not by my hand that you were stripped of your dignity and raped this day. I have given you nothing less than fairness, generosity, and the hospitality of my home. When in truth I owe you nothing, for your kind are the usurpers of all that was and is good in Ireland.

“Well, by God’s grace, I’m Irish. Since the dawning of all memory on this island—from the great battle between the Firbolgs and the Tuatha de Danann—an O’Neill king has ruled over the rocks of this lake and the hills that surround it. We’ve been overrun by Vikings, Scotchmen, Normans, Englishmen. We Irish savages have been converted by saints to Christianity, saved from eternal damnation by kings who proclaim they rule by divine right and lesser kings who rule only by the might of their own hand. But, by God, I’m Irish. I know exactly who and what I am. Can you say the same?”

Morgana picked up a slice of salmon with her fingers and laid it between the bread in her hand, folding it into a convenient bite-size morsel. “Obviously, I can’t speak with the same eloquence and passion to answer your question. But, yes, I do know exactly who I am and what I am.”

She shoved the whole bite into her mouth and chewed hard, as though his bread were made of gravel, not milled grain. Hugh sat back in his chair, drinking his wine, his eyes glittering as they assessed her.

“Then tell me, Morgana of Kildare. Who are you, really? What are you doing here in Ulster, where you are not welcome and not wanted? For what reason do you travel to my liege man in Dunluce?

“If you are an English spy hired by Walsingham, sent here deliberately to tempt and compromise me, I have the right to know the truth.”

Morgana almost choked. The bread stuck in her dry throat and wouldn’t budge past her windpipe. She raised one hand to her throat and reached for the goblet with the other.

Hugh made no move to assist her. In fact, he didn’t even blink as he stared at her, watching her gulp down swallows of wine as she tried to dislodge the wedged bread and salmon. Her color was quite high when she set the goblet aside and finally brought her pale eyes back to his.

“You think I’m an English spy?” she whispered, her voice barely a croak. “Sent here by Walsingham?”

“Circumspectly, I believe that what I witnessed today was just a little too patent to be real. I find it curious that in the heat of his passions James Kelly would confess his crimes to you. Forgive me if I tell you it doesn’t ring true. I won’t be set up to fall victim to Walsingham’s treacheries.” Not this O’Neill.

“Now, young woman…” Hugh reached forward and took the hourglass on the table in hand and turned it over.

“You have exactly ten minutes to tell all and convince me that every word you utter is the Gospel according to Mark, or else you will find yourself locked away in the same pit in the earth that James Kelly occupies this very moment. Begin at the beginning.”

Morgana sat back, staring at him blank-faced, appalled. Every word he’d uttered rang as a true and dangerous threat, to her ears. She closed her lips, which had parted with dismay, and folded her hands into her lap, saying nothing.

The fine sand trickled through the glass, making a minuscule white hill on the bottom. Morgana looked once at the hourglass, then back at the O’Neill’s cold and heartless face. She wasn’t going to engage in a test of wills with him. There was no purpose in doing that. She’d lose.

In fact, she realized belatedly, she’d already lost.

She would rather die than spend one minute in the same space as James Kelly. Morgana rose to her feet and crossed the room to the fireplace, picked up her boots and yanked out the crumpled tissue Brigit had stuffed inside them.

Hugh watched her jerk each boot onto her bare feet and deliberately tie the laces. He did not bother telling her she could not leave the room.

Loghran O’Toole guarded one door, Kermit Blackbeard the other. Did she try to run, she’d not live to regret it. Either would cut her throat before she had the chance to let out a single scream.

Bored with watching her fumble with the laces of her boots, Hugh looked at the hourglass, counting the time that remained. “Your ten minutes are rapidly running out, lady. Personally, I find your silence at this critical moment appalling.”

“Go to hell, O’Neill!” Morgana muttered as she got to her feet again. She barely retained control of her rage.

“Do you play the game to suit me, my rewards to you will prove more generous than Walsingham’s ever would be. I might be amenable to allowing you to remain at Dungannon as my mistress for a time. Do you serve me well, you’ll be adequately pensioned after.”

Morgana paused at the mullioned windows to take a deep, calming breath. She glanced back over her shoulder as she twisted the lock on the window and pushed it open. A cold breeze caressed her cheek. Hugh O’Neill sat on his chaise as if it were a throne, watching her with the dispassionate eye of a Roman emperor.

Oh, his cold black eyes moved coveteously over her person, cataloging each movement that she made; but he was as blind to what she really was as the stones of his castle. Morgana swung her head and stared out the open window. The sky had cleared from the north to the east. A pale moon hung like a battered pewter cup in the dark, starless sky.

Beyond the window frame a soft, formless shape floated on the rising mist. Two hands stretched out opened palms of welcome to Morgana. The shade’s soft, keening voice brushed across Morgana’s eardrum, not registering any audible sound.

Don’t trust him, cried Catherine Fitzgerald. He is the O’Neill. All his people think it so. I have waited long years for a kinsman to come. You must help me, Morgana. Blood must stand for blood.

Morgana’s heart made a fierce racket under her ribs, banging against her breastbone. She swallowed and stared straight through the ghostly shape between the window frame and the distant hills. She refused to look down at the water in the lake. Water frightened her so. It always had and always would. If she was lucky, she’d hit the rocks and she wouldn’t have to suffer the agonizing death of suffocating by drowning.

You must help me, sweetling, Catherine wailed, her lament sadder than the keen of little Maoveen when she had mourned the passing of Shane O’Neill. I’m so lonely and lost.

Agitated by the unaccountable rising of the wind, Hugh unclasped his hands, which had been deliberately laced to passive stillness over his flat belly.

He raised his voice to gain the woman’s immediate attention. “Shall I point out to you now, woman, that your silence serves only as an admission of guilt to all the charges I’ve laid on you?”

He baits you. Don’t listen to him! Catherine swirled in through the open window, circling her great niece as she spun on angry heels to confront the man. Listen to me!

“You are free to point out anything you like to a lowly creature such as I, O’Neill,” Morgana said. “Count yourself right about one thing. There will never be a thirteenth Fitzgerald earl of Kildare. Without me, Sean’s life is forfeit. I pray God you are right about one more thing. May there never be another O’Neill of Tyrone to strike terror into the hearts of the women and children of Ireland.

“Now I understand why Aunt Catherine chose to take her own life rather than live in this castle, married to an O’Neill!”

No! Catherine wailed. I didn’t! Stop! You foolish girl! Stop her, Hugh O’Neill!

Morgana bounded onto the window ledge, crying out, “Goodbye, O’Neill! Till we meet each other in hell, sir, I bid you farewell!”

Hugh uncoiled from his chair. “What in God’s name do you think you are doing?”

His shout reverberated off the coffered ceiling. Loghran and Kermit burst through opposite doors of the chamber instantly, dirks drawn and ready, expecting to find Hugh in a struggle for his life.

They ran past each other in the center and spun round, back-to-back, visually sweeping each dark corner.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” O’Toole sprang to the open window and threw his long body across Hugh’s kicking legs to anchor him inside the room.

“What?” Kermit bellowed. “Have you lost your mind, O’Neill?”

“Don’t stand there jawing!” hollered O’Toole. “Help me pull him back in! The bloody woman jumped out the window!”

“Is she mad?” Kermit wasted words and breath, but no time, as he threw his own crushing weight over Hugh’s hips, pinning them to the window ledge.

“Christ Almighty, are you trying to emasculate me?” Hugh thundered. “Get off my bloody cods and give me a hand out the bloody window, you fool. I’ve got her. I just can’t pull her back.”

Dumbfounded, Kermit pulled back enough to yank open the other window. He bent halfway out over the sill, stretching, trying to reach Hugh’s hand. The woman spun by one arm, twisting back and forth, her wild feet kicking her skirts in the wind. Hugh’s fingers were as white as Dover chalk where they clenched the bones of her wrist.

“Cut her loose,” Loghran ordered, telling Kermit exactly how to wield the long knife he still clasped in one hand. “Chop off her hand. Save the O’Neill!”

“You do, and so help me God, I’ll throw both of you down on top of what’s left of her body,” Hugh growled ferociously. A mighty shout followed as he jerked the woman up, catching hold of her clothing with his other hand. The laces on her vest held. “Morgana! Give me your left hand!”

Kermit groped down Hugh’s sleeve, feeling for his wrist, stretching as far as he dared. His eyes bulged like the tendons in Hugh’s forearm. Just beyond his fingertips, a clump of bunched cloth tore audibly.

The woman’s fingernails scraped and clawed at Hugh’s hand. The bloody-minded creature tried to pry his fingers from her wrist.

Kermit closed his eyes and clamped his fist on that talonlike hand of vicious, clawing fingers. The fingers crushed under his. He slapped his other hand over her wrist and grunted, hauling what resisted up to him. She felt like ten hundredweight of stone.

“I’ve got her.” Hugh gasped. “Loghran, for the love of God, give me some help. I can’t hold her much longer.”

“Don’t! Let me go!” Morgana snarled. She kicked her feet and spun around, only to twist violently back to where she’d begun.

Taller than either Hugh or Kermit, Loghran shifted his weight no more than necessary to keep Hugh from following the stupid woman to her death on the rocks. He unhooked his belt and positioned himself carefully, never taking most of his body weight from O’Neill’s legs.

“All right,” he said as he leaned over Hugh’s straining body. “When I give the signal, the two of you hoist her as high as you can.”

“Just do it! Now!” Hugh gave the signal. Both he and Kermit grunted deeply, jerking Morgana upward. Loghran snapped the leather around her body and caught the whipping tail, pulling both ends taut over her back.

“Got her!” He grunted. They pulled. She fought like a hooked marlin, cursing, raining blasphemies on the wet air and the castle walls.

Loghran got hold of her hair. Hugh found a leg. Kermit got an eye gouged by somebody’s elbow. She shrieked more viciously than the banshee Maoveen when they hauled her over the ledge.

All four of them hit the floor—a heap of sweating, shaking tangle of arms and legs.

“God the Father Almighty, forgive us,” Loghran croaked.

Panting as hard as a winded horse, Hugh clutched the woman to his chest and fought to catch his breath. Sweat ran freely down his cheeks and onto his neck. He swallowed twice, then put out his hand when Loghran moved to untwist his belt from its tight constriction beneath Morgana’s ribs.

“Leave it,” Hugh commanded raggedly. “I’m going to beat her to death, when and if I can ever move my arms again.”

Kermit, who could not move his brawny arms at all, said, “When you finish, O’Neill, I want to murder what’s left. She could have killed us, one and all.”

Loghran raised his fingers over the woman’s heaving back and made the sign of the cross. He found his voice and used it to beseech God to forgive all of them.

As the priest raised his hand in a sign of forgiveness and blessing, Catherine Fitzgerald put her hands to her face and faded into the tower’s stone walls, weeping, as lost as she had been since the night of her death.

Morgana listened to the litany in Latin, numb with shock, unable to tell her tears from the sweat that coursed down Hugh’s neck and throat onto her brow and cheek. His hand gripped her head, tightly holding her head flattened against his chest. His heart pumped erratically.

At some point, the cadence evened. Hugh’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, repeating the same order twice. “Leave us.”

Loghran got up and extended a hand to Kermit, hauling the soldier to his feet.

“Thank you.” As Hugh gave vent to his gratitude, Loghran grunted and closed the windows, twisting the brass hasps so tightly the metal screeched.

The soft swish of their boots retreated across the wooden floor. Morgana tried to use her hands to wipe her face. The right one felt as if it were never going to work again. Hugh caught hold of her fingers and tucked them down between their bodies.