Skye O'Malley

“Aye,” agreed Niall admiringly. “I’m thinking you’re wasted on your island, de Marisco. Court is obviously the place for you!” “Christ, no! I’d die penned up in that putrid city playing the gallant to that vain bitch, Bessie Tudor! Wasting my time, and my money on useless clothes, cards, and highborn, high-priced doxies. Give me Lundy, barren rock that it is, and the sea, and I’m a happy man.”

“You don’t mention sons to follow you, de Marisco. Why?” Adam de Marisco smiled wryly. “Because they’ll be none, Niall Burke,” he replied. “Fate has a grim sense of humor. When I was fourteen I was taken with a fever that rendered my seed barren. I’ve the appetite of a damned satyr where women are concerned, yet I’ve never fathered a child. I went to an old witchwoman in Devon several years ago in hopes of learning why. When she questioned me and learned of the fever I had had as a boy, she told me she couldn’t help, that the life had been burned out of my seed. She said she had heard of such cases before. With not so much as a daughter to my credit thus far, I had to believe her.

“That’s another reason helping Skye is important to me. Her little son, Robin, and I are the last living descendants of the first Southwood.” He chuckled at Niall’s incredulous look. “Aye, Irishman!

The de Mariscos are the bastard branch of the family. “The first Geoffroi de Sudbois brought over from Normandy his mistress, Mathilde de Marisco. Actually as the story has come down, he intended to wed with the lady when he made his fortune with Duke William. Like him, she was a second child, so her portion was very small. After my noble ancestor had taken Lynmouth he found it more practical to wed with the old lord’s daughter, and so the fair Gwyneth became the mother of the legitimate line. “Mathilde, however, was a bold and ambitious wench. She far preferred coming to England as Geoffroi’s mistress to remaining in Normandy as a poor relation in her brother’s house or entering some insignificant nunnery. She lived for several years in the west tower of Lynmouth Castle making poor Gwyneth’s life a hell. But then one day her eldest son was caught attempting to smother one of the legitimate Southwoods in his cradle, and the fair Gwyneth put her dainty Saxon foot down. Mathilde and her offspring had to go. Lundy belonged to Lynmouth then, and so Geoffroi deeded the island to Mathilde de Marisco, her sons, and their descendants forever. “Down through the generations the de Mariscos have wed with Southwood bastards, Southwood younger daughters, or their French cousins. In fact my grandmother and the late Geoffrey Southwood’s grandfather were brother and sister. Since I am the last of my line, the last of the bastards of Lundy, young Robin is the last of the Southwoods. I have enough family feeling to want to protect both him and his mother. They are dear to me.”

“Does Skye know this?”

“Nay. We never discussed it,” said Adam de Marisco. Niall Burke didn’t have the courage to ask why. Whatever had happened between Skye and Adam had happened before he had wed her and it was not his business. Adam de Marisco was definitely an honorable man. He looked long and hard at the lord of Lundy, and Adam returned his look. “You’re quite a man, cousin,” said Niall Burke. “Now, let’s rescue that wench of mine before she gets into further mischief.”

Several hours later Niall found himself and his host aboard a ship towing the Moorish vessel toward the Devon coast. Robert Small awaited them at Lynmouth. The little man was furious. “I leave you to care for Skye, and come home from a short and profitable voyage to find her in the Tower of London! Is this how you watch over her? And you, Adam de Marisco! You’re no better, going along with her foolishness! You are the ones who should be in London, not my Skye! I understand from my sister that she was with child. She must have delivered it months ago! Is the Tower the place for a new mother, and my niece or nephew? Do you even know whether the babe is male or female?”

“Dammit, Robbie, be silent!” roared Niall. “Sit down and listen to me! Skye is perfectly safe. There is no evidence against her. I was forbidden London, or even Ireland. I was told to remain at Lynmouth, and Skye begged me to comply for Robin’s sake. She doesn’t wish to cost him his inheritance. My child was safely delivered last December 12^th, but I know not its gender, for even de Grenville was not allowed to see Skye, though he says Cecil had promised him he might.

“There has been no way to help Skye safely until recently. Now I will risk the Queen’s displeasure and go to London, for de Marisco has solved the dilemma. For pity’s sake, Adam, tell him before he strangles us both.”

Slowly, carefully, Adam de Marisco outlined his plan. “It’s possible,” Robert Small nodded thoughtfully. “Have you the log?”

Adam de Marisco brought the flat book to Robbie, and he opened it. “Yes,” he said immediately. “It’s Arabic.” He was silent for a few minutes as he perused the log. Then he said slowly. “The ship is the Gazelle… out of Algiers… and she has been a-pirating.” His spirits rose. “They picked up some men in a longboat several weeks ago, and shortly after that their crew began sickening and dying. The men in the longboat perished almost immediately. This last entry was made ten days ago. It says simply: ‘Allah have mercy.’” Robbie looked up. “The poor devils.” He pushed the pages back, reading swiftly here and there, and suddenly his weathered face split into a smile. “Here’s a piece of luck! An entry made early last spring says, ‘Took a cursed Spaniard today,’ and their heading that day was in the Atlantic off the coast of Ireland! They were on their way out men. The rest of the book has many entries of piracy against the ‘infidel,’ but they were primarily Spaniard-hunters, which is greatly to our good. If Cecil is suspicious enough, and can find someone who reads Arabic, this should confirm your story. I’ll go through the rest of the log more carefully tomorrow to be sure there’s nothing that could harm Skye. In the meantime, send the Gazelle off to London tonight. We’ll have to wait until she arrives before we do. Otherwise we lose the element of surprise.” It was difficult to wait, but they did. Adam de Marisco returned to Lundy where he paced his entire island at least two dozen times during the next few weeks.

Robert Small rode home to Wren Court, where he spent his time handling the business of the trading company that belonged to him and Skye. French Jean, Skye’s secretary, took the brunt of Robbie’s bad temper and, but for his loyalty to his mistress, would have packed up Marie and the children and returned to Brittany. Niall worried that their plan might fail. What would they do in that case? But he kept his fears from the children. The separation from his mother had matured Robin Southwood. Without Skye to shield and protect her little son, with his stepfather’s strong and kind influence, the young Earl of Lynmouth was made very aware of his position and rose to the challenge.

Willow, her mother’s daughter for all she looked like Khalid el Bey, tried hard to replace Skye, sitting between Robin and Niall at the high board and presiding over the household staff. At first the servants tolerated her with benign amusement. Soon, to their horror, they discovered a far sterner taskmistress than their own Countess was. Their complaints to Niall fell upon deaf ears. Unless Willow was in the wrong he supported her fully, and the young girl blossomed under her stepfather’s wise support.

Several weeks slipped by, and then finally Robert Small received word that the Gazelle and her escort ship, Mermaid, were at anchor in the London Pool. He rode hard for Lynmouth. That night in the west tower of the castle a green signal light beamed across the eleven miles of water separating Lynmouth and Lundy. At dawn the following day, three caped riders clattered across the castle drawbridge and down the lane to the London road.

It was rainy that late March day, and the empty roads were muddy.

The fog was thick in some places, thin in others, and a gray mist hung like ribbons above the newly planted brown fields. There was no wind at all, and the millponds were still and as smooth as glass. The trees waited expectantly, their buds eager for the April sun. Here and there on the hillsides clumps of yellow and white daffodils and narcissus proved that winter had gone, even if the air was chill and damp.

The three men road silently, their heads down, their shoulders hunched against the steady rain. At midday they stopped at a roadside tavern to wolf down bread, cheese, and bitter brown ale. They were on the road again within the hour, and traveled in the steadily worsening rain until several hours after dark. Finally they broke their journey at a small inn that seemed clean but undistinguished, and therefore unlikely to attract anyone who might recognize Lord Burke. Niall was pleased to find that the stable was dry, the stalls filled with fresh, clean straw, the stableman knowledgeable. He tsk-tsked disapprovingly as Lord Burke led in the three tired horses. “I hopes your business justifies riding these beauties in this weather,” he scolded, and Niall hid a smile.

“And when,” he answered, “have the Irish ever been known to abuse good horseflesh? Have them ready to go at dawn, man!” He flipped the openmouthed stableman a silver coin and strode away, grinning to himself. The animals would be well cared for after their long day.

Robbie and de Marisco were waiting for him in the taproom. The men revived a bit with hot mulled wine. “The horses will be ready to go at dawn. What’s for dinner?”