Elizabeth Mayne - Lord Of The Isle

“Look like?” Mrs. Carrick asked, surprised by the question. “Why, she looks as a girl of ten-and-six should look, Sir Hugh. Save for that awful bruise on her face. The poor mite’s battered from head to toe. Such bruises as I’ve never seen the like. Not from an unexpected dip in Abhainn Mor, I haven’t. But if you say that’s how the poor dear was hurt, then so she was.”

“I didn’t actually say that,” Hugh pointed out.

“Well, then, I suppose those rapids could cut a lady’s gown to ribbons. Or scratch her deep from her belly to her throat. Why, if she tumbled off that Benburg bridge, that would account for blackening her eye and putting bruises the size of a man’s fist on her back and her hip. Are you sure it was just the river you rescued her from?”

Hugh bit down on a biscuit, eyeing Mrs. Carrick’s placid face. He knew better than to try and fool her. “All right, then, you’ve found me out, Mrs. Carrick. Aye, a brute of a man was intending her grievous harm. But I don’t care for that to be common knowledge, or for there to be gossip down in the kitchens about her. She’s a lady, and rightly in need of my protection.”

Just what exactly had convinced Hugh of that fact, he couldn’t lay his finger on. Certainly nothing tangible. Then he remembered her horse and her concern for the animal, or for what the horse might have carried in its saddle packs. He’d have a look for himself when Macmurrough arrived.

Mrs. Carrick beamed at him, saying proudly, “So you dispatched him, did you? Good for you, O’Neill. You’re a better man than your father, if that be the case.”

“Humph,” Hugh grunted over the compliment that praised him at the expense of his father. His jaw worked, chewing a crisp biscuit packed with sausage and ginger sauce.

“I didn’t exactly dispatch him. I dispatched five English soldiers, and I’ve detained the bastard who beat Morgana. Provided that I can convince Matthew to summon the council for a trial, he’ll be dispatched once and for all. The man’s wanted for other crimes, but you know my odds of convincing Matthew better than I.”

“I heard talk in the kitchens that it’s James Kelly you’ve brought to justice.” Like most O’Neill kinsmen, Mrs. Carrick believed in speaking her mind. Hugh didn’t imagine the bright, bloodthirsty gleam in her eyes. She’d served three O’Neills, and as loyal and trustworthy as she was, Hugh hoped she’d live to serve three more. “Is that true, young Hugh?”

“You’ve found me out. So I have done,” Hugh admitted.

“You’re not one to brag over your accomplishments, are you? But if you’ve captured James Kelly, then I say it’s time you sat on the stone of clan O’Neill and declared yourself the O’Neill. It’s high time we had a strong leader, milord.”

“Last time I heard how it was done, one didn’t sit on the stone of O’Neill and declare oneself anything. The clan’s inaugurator does the proclaiming, else there isn’t any claiming to be done, period.” Changing the subject, Hugh asked, “Don’t you find Morgan a peculiar name for an Irishwoman?”

“Irish? She’s no more Irish than Great Harry or his harlot daughter,” Mrs. Carrick replied, exasperated.

“She could be ‘old English.’” Hugh referred to the descendants of the Norman conquerors.

Periodically the landed descendants of the Norman Conquest went into open revolt, as the whims of politics struck them. Queen Elizabeth claimed the tenth generation Fitzgeralds, Butlers and Burkes were more Irish than the real Irish, and too proud to admit it. That observation had stung Hugh years ago. Now that he was older, it no longer had the power to shame him into thinking he was less a man for his Gaelic ancestors.

“I gave that some thought, asking her of customs in the Pale—French wines and priest holes. She is very tired, tho’ and ’tis hard to guard one’s tongue when one is exhausted. I think she is English and titled, milord.”

“What makes you say that?” Hugh asked, actively seeking the woman’s opinion.

“Och, she was content to be served, as though it were her due. Only nobility take the service of others as their due.”

“She was boorish? Rude?”

“Nay, milord, nothing like that. She graciously accepted without question any service offered her. That’s the way of noble English ladies.”

“You have experience serving noble English ladies, Mrs. Carrick?”

“A few times, Lord Hugh. You may think me not old enough, but I served the Lady Catherine Fitzgerald when she came to Dungannon as bride to your grandfather, Conn.”

“You did?” Hugh’s eyes widened at that bit of news.

“’Twas a sad time, and I was a young girl, then, but I remember how gracious Lady Catherine was. Young Morgana is of the same ilk, a lady. I’d stake my soul on that.”

“A noble, you say,” Hugh mused, somewhat distractedly. “That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Lady Susana will be hounding you about her. Susana was hoping you’d take favor with Inghinn Dubh.”

Hugh judiciously cleared his throat. “The queen would never approve that alliance. She’d likely have a fit if I dared marry outside of her approval. I know earls who’ve met the headsman’s ax for less.”

“Mayhap you shouldn’t have let her make you an earl, then.” Mrs. Carrick’s innate practicality came to the fore. She spoke freely to Hugh, still thinking of him as a young boy needing a mother’s good counsel and direction.

“As I wasn’t given any choice, I couldn’t refuse the honor,” Hugh answered, just as forthrightly.

“Och, you could have if you’d been at Dungannon when your grandfather died. He cursed all the Irish who make terms with the English. That curse made Matthew the weakling he is, God save his tormented soul.”

“I thought a fall from his horse broke my uncle’s back,” Hugh said, with no facetiousness intended. He tried to think back to his early childhood, to remember his uncle walking, or moving his legs unaided. No image of that came to mind, though he knew perfectly well that his uncle’s accident had happened after Hugh went to live in England.

Mrs. Carrick gave evidence of how deeply her own superstitions ran, by crossing herself before speaking. “A deathbed curse bears more weight than others. There are those what say it’s the weight of it on Matthew’s shoulders that broke his back. In the olden days, it was always an eye for an eye, tribute for tribute and ache for ache. Then Conn the Lame made terms with Great Harry, and you know the rest.”

“Fascinating,” Hugh said as he bit deeply into a bun stuffed with slabs of mutton. “You believe those old tales, Mrs. Carrick? Of witchcraft, and curses that pass on from generation unto generation?”

“Believe them?” She laughed a little too brightly, then reached over Hugh’s shoulder and took a pinch of salt from the cellar on his tray and tossed it over her left shoulder.

“I’m Irish, laddie. I believe in all of it, from leprechauns and pots of gold under rainbows on down to our Lord Jesus Christ and all his blessed saints. You’d be well served to believe in things you can’t explain, too.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, and Hugh did, chuckling deeply, but not scorning what the old woman said. “Ah, you’d have loved attending Queen Elizabeth’s court, Mrs. Carrick. She’s an astounding wizard in her employ, a Welshman by the name of John Dee. Some say his skills put the fabled Merlin to shame. I’ve seen him do fabulous tricks with my own eyes.”

“Such as?” Mrs. Carrick demanded, distrusting anything that came of England’s court out of hand.

“Why…” Hugh paused, thinking for a moment of Dee’s most outlandish trick—sawing people in half, which was pure fakery and illusion, not magic. “I saw him levitate a yeoman guard in full armor in the bailey at the Tower of London.”

“You don’t say?” Mrs. Carrick inhaled deeply. “There must be many a sorry prisoner that wished for the same skill and craft to escape that hellhole.”

Reminded of the true nature of the Tower, Hugh agreed. “I expect their grieving womenfolk were of the same mind, and would have gladly paid for any bit of magic that would have enabled their men to escape the queen’s clutches.”

“That reminds me, your Morgana of Kildare wants to be woken at first light on the morrow, so she can continue her pilgrimage to Dunluce.” Mrs. Carrick fixed Hugh with her steady eyes.

“I’m not surprised.” Hugh replied, easily enough.

“Do you ken why she would want to make a pilgrimage specifically to Dunluce?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, though she did mention that as her destination, once in passing.”

“It doesn’t seem right.” Mrs. Carrick went on. “What with Drake harrying all of Antrim, bombarding the coast and laying siege to Glenarm by sea. I’ve advised her not to go, but I don’t think she cares for my wisdom. Perhaps you should talk to her about that. Surely you’ll not let her leave Dungannon to travel north without suitable escort.”

Hugh knew very well what roving factions of soldiers could do to a woman traveling alone and unprotected. Today had been a prime example of that folly at its worst.

“Morgana of Kildare will not be leaving at dawn or noon or at any time alone,” Hugh said firmly. “I’ll see to that. Did she tell you why she wants to go Dunluce?”

“No, milord. I was hoping she’d told you.”

“Humph.” Hugh considered Mrs. Carrick’s words carefully. “I’ll tackle that tomorrow. She’s exhausted by her…uh… ordeal. So we can assume she’ll sleep long and deep. The best way round about detaining her is to just let her sleep in. Don’t let anyone go to the solar to wake her.”

“But you said she shouldn’t sleep, and I left Brigit chattering to her to keep her awake.”

“Ah, but Mrs. Carrick, you don’t know a woman can be perverse? She’ll sleep, just because I told her not to.”

“And aren’t you sure of yourself?” Mrs. Carrick teased. “Oh, and by the way, milord—Her hair’s as red as holly berries.”

“Is that so?” Hugh chuckled softly under his breath. “No wonder she fights with such passion. A redhead, then?”

Mrs. Carrick left him to his thoughts. On her way out the door, Hugh detained her with another question. “Did you send a tray to her yet?”

“No, but I will.”

“I’ll fetch it to the solar. Say, in a quarter hour.”

Mrs. Carrick glanced at the standing clockwork next to the bank of oaken bookshelves that covered one interior wall. “A quarter hour it is, milord.”

Sleep was the last thing Morgana intended to do in Dungannon Castle. The bath restored her as nothing else could have. Once she had something substantial to eat, she was certain, she’d have the energy to get on her way.

The chattery maid Mrs. Carrick left to watch over Morgana was no citadel against Morgana’s inborn ability to dominate and influence. First she requested that Brigit find her something more substantial than a night rail to wear. Brigit didn’t hesitate for a moment to open two trunks and a wardrobe in the spacious chamber and let Morgana take her pick from the carefully stored-in-tissue gowns.

“Everything in these trunks belonged to Sir Hugh’s mother,” Brigit explained. “They’ve gone to waste these many years. No one ever uses these rooms, you see.”

“Why’s that?” Morgana gingerly eased one knee down onto the hard floor, examining a trunk’s contents.

Brigit shrugged. It wasn’t her place to tell the girl the solar was haunted. She’d know that soon enough, if she actually had to sleep here. “I expect that if His Lordship gave you these rooms to sleep in, he won’t mind you making use of the clothes, too.”