oneill_excerpts.bvp

      Excerpt # 1
Shane O’Neill
CHAPTER 1 1559 anno domini
Another dismal Atlantic sky, soft rain blurring the Donegal hills and sea in the usual grey-green haze as far as the eye could see. Not bloody far. But maybe a half-mile up the coast road a stir of horses and, very probably, a carriage were tumbling along at a fierce clip. Very definitely approaching the castle, for they've passed the turn off at the stiles. Something urgent, hopefully, to shake up this dreary interminable day. Aye, a carriage it is.
Kathryn turned from the window, and stepped softly over to the oaken trunk at the foot of the bed. As she lifted the heavy lid, a waft of heather and wool, and a deep drawn breath, soothed and settled her just a bit. Burrowing under a mound of tartan mantles and blankets, her fingers felt for the precious frock. Ah! It had been carefully rolled in fur with a wee sachet of dried roses, and as it unfurled across the bed, Kathryn smiled to see it as fresh and blue as it was on that last night in Paris. Aye, as blue a gown as ever graced the Virgin Mary, but with a wee bit of décolletage! She hugged the dress across her bosom when a sharp knock on the open door spun her around all the way from Paris.
     “Beggin’ yer pardon, Ma’am.   The gateman says to tell you there’s a coach and a few horsemen on their way in. Is the master in here?”
      “He is not. My husband’s at his books or his sleeping.   Tell the auld man to bestir himself, Morag, and then come back and lace me into this. Good girl.”
     “I will, so.”, she sighed, and off with her down the steep stair.
Kathryn set about donning the velvet frock and confided in the cat who was stretching and settling himself cozy in the open trunk. “My husband in here? When O’Donnell crosses this threshold again I’ll away for Scotland! Oh, aye. It’s little you care, Pishogue… And who do you suppose is coming to call? Well, whoever it is will not find the Countess of Argyle in rags. Even in this aul boghole.”
     O’Donnell was there before her when Kathryn reached the courtyard, and he was clearly puzzled to see his wife bedecked in her blue finery on this bleary afternoon. “Who’s this you’ve got coming, woman, that you never gave a warning word?”   She raised her brows and shrugged by way of reply. Even in Ireland, surely, a countess would not receive callers dressed like a fishwife.
     There was a commotion at the gates and a voice from above shouted through the misty rain, giving him his answer. “Tis O’Neill, Sir. With your daughter in tow.” The gates parted and three horsemen bolted into the muddy yard. The first, sure enough, was Shane O’Neill, his black hair glistening in the rain. A tall brawny jack-the-lad with flashing eyes, he rode in the Irish fashion with no saddle, and wore a shaggy mantle over his tunic. Behind them rolled a huge coach with its team of white horses. It was loaded with trunks. Kathryn stepped back out of the rain, away from the splattering mud, but still slightly forward of her husband and his attendants. Cullagh O’Donnell was a stout florid man with bushy white brows and doubtful watery eyes that belied a grim cunning behind them. He had achieved his position by imprisoning his father who still languished in a tower above. The carriage came to a halt by the portico, and the driver and two of the horsemen dismounted to unpack it.
      O’Neill swung his horse around the yard in a gallop, and reared up directly in front of them waving a leather pouch. “Here’s your daughter back, O’Donnell!” He tipped the sack with a flourish, pouring a clatter of golden coins onto the stones. “And here’s your bloody dowry as well!” He gave a sharp tug on the reins and stepped the horse a few paces back.
      The door to the carriage swung open and Moya emerged in a flood of tears and rage. She was a clipped, brittle, stick of girl in a black frock with a starchy collar, haughty and prim, and if she was in a hot temper, the sight of her father’s young wife did nothing to cool it.   She took in the blue gown spilling lacy cleavage over its bodice, and a certain provocative light in Kathryn’s eyes; for although Kat was working fiercely to keep her face composed, her blue eyes shone with wicked glee at the spectacle before her. As O’Donnell tried to embrace his daughter, Moya pulled away and spat in Kathryn’s face. “Bloody cur-bitch!” She lunged at her wildly, and as her father pulled her back she kicked mud onto the blue gown. A few of the servants came to his assistance and bundled her inside. Shane rode forward proffering a white kerchief. “This is not a surrender” he said with a wink. “It’s for you, Countess.” Kathryn accepted the linen with composure, wiped her face, and tossed her auburn hair.
     As O’Donnell edged forward, O’Neill straightened up tall. His eyes narrowed and cooled to a steely grey and he thundered, “All deals are off, O’Donnell. There’s not a pope nor a parson could make that marriage stick. You only married her over to me so she could spy for Sussex. I want no agents of the queen at my board or in my bed!” His stallion danced under him as he steadied him back a pace or two. His shining grey eyes now were not on O’Donnell, but on the old man’s wife. She met his gaze, steady and cool, a thing she had avoided on past occasions, as unbefitting, perhaps, for a mother-in-law.
      O’Donnell stepped between them. “A man who keeps to the law need have no fear of spies!”
“I keep to Irish law!” O’Neill glanced at the waiting carriage, and turned his horse. “I keep to Irish law. And I fear no-one!”   Shane O’Neill reeled and galloped off through the open gates, followed by his men. The coach and six made a great circle in the yard and disappeared under the archway, thundering over the cobbles, and leaving the stacks of baggage on the stones in the empty silent courtyard. The rain had ceased.

     Not far from the Great Lough in the wilds of Ulster, a raggedy grove of hazels bend and twist and scrape (and bough!) before an ancient towering oak as they have done since the War of the Trees. They were wintersticks now, wet and black against the luminous moss-green braes of Slieve Gallon. A noontide of winter sun, and a low glowering bank of purple Northern clouds set all in stark relief, with only the flitting of restless jackdaws to mar the stillness. It was they who noted the young intruder, and they threw up a clamour of cries. Their rasp and squawk seemed to give voice to the jagged hazels themselves as they pulled and strained at their roots. A lanky lad of perhaps fifteen summers loped and scrambled through the brush that seemed to shift and shiver at his footfall. His blue eyes puzzled a path before him from under a shaggy glib of tangled hair. He hugged a bundle to his breast, fending off the odd wayward branch as he drew ever closer to the giant oak.
     The tree itself rose like a castle from a crag, sprouting massive limbs like turrets above. The exposed roots below would call to mind a mote filled with writhing dragons and serpents, where a tangle of limbs stretch and twist before disappearing into the mossy earth. It was avowed by at least one particular sage that all these were one time below ground until the receding waters of the Great Flood swept them free. This wise man never made mention, however, of a certain dark hollow beneath this oaken muddle, for he was a poet, and he took this secret root-strewn cavern as a retreat for the dark visitations of his muse. It is widely known that poets are like cats, and will nose their way into any cozy nook that will accommodate them.
     The old conjurer would seal the cave’s portal with a broad flagstone, not only to hide, but also to keep the precious darkness within, a vital consideration to any of the Bardic Orders. But if you put your ear to the stone you would hear, just this minute, a rush of liquid Gaelic, rippling in meters and staves in the berryblack hollow within. And if you had the Gaelic, his visions would be called before your mind’s eye. Darkness is the realm of the ear, and where colors and shapes are banished, the word is all, and phantoms and gods are free to come and go…
“A bitter vision
                lights my eyes within
within the black
that lies about my weary limbs.
She rides, She rides
and flashes sorrowed eyes,
tossing tangled tresses in the wind.
That brightest brow
she raises now
and breathless she approaches.
The goddess Eire,
grey eyed one.
I hear her say
He's on his way.
He's bound to come.
Her lover, her beloved one...”

          A clatter of tumbling rocks halted vision and verse. The voice stumbled, fumbling again at the rumble of more tumbling rocks, as a narrow shaft of light pierced the dark dream. A white haired old wizard of a man lay naked, muttering to himself on a furry hide in a nest of straw. There was a fairly large flat stone resting on his belly. His eyes were scrunched tight in a fury of concentration.
“That brightest brow…now…she raises now…Aaagh! Seven red curses on you for a venomous little squint of a hellfire beam! You have my blessed poem shattered!” He took a deep breath and settled back to recollect his treasured staves. He’d learned long ago to gather his thoughts before turning them to the damnation of squabbling squirrels and badgering badgers that occasionally intruded on him here. He tried again to retrieve the verse. “I heard him say, he’s… …brightest brow…?”
     With a scrape and a thump, winterlight flooded the poet’s lair, silhouetting the awkward youth who stood peering into the cave. He inquired in the loudest whisper he could muster; “ Are ye awake, Farleigh? Farleigh?”   The steady murmur from the straw pallet grew louder at his intrusion, so he brought the full of his throat to bear as he insisted; “Hut! Farleigh! Are ye awake? Get up!!!”
     The old poet bolted upright as the stone popped off his belly onto the disheveled cot. “Up? Up, is it? You lanky wee slouch of a gilly! A down without up to you! You’re a six foot flea that’s due for a scratching!”
     The boy met this fury with a smile of relief. “Och, Farleigh, it’s yourself! I thought you were in a rupture.”
     “Rapture, you lump!” The old man dipped a quill into a pot of ink and began scratching down the hopeless remnants of his poem.”
     “Aye, Farleigh, aye. That’s what I’m after sayin’. You were lookin’ fierce wild, the way I thought you were away with ‘themselves’. “ The boy knew enough not to refer to the fairies directly, not so much for fear of their dark powers, as for wariness of the hot tempered poet before him. “You’re a terrible hard man to rouse.”
     The poet blew on the scrap of parchment and turned his attention to the lad. “But you never fail to rouse me! And who has set you on me this time, if I might ask?”   He furrowed his bushy brows and nodded toward the bundle at Gilly’s feet.   The boy tossed it to him and explained.
     “Shane O’Neill is waitin’ below at the salmon leap. He sent me off after ye with these.” He lowered his tone a notch. “Begod, that was a fair while ago, for I went astray in the wood.”
Farleigh got to his feet and shook out the massive garment. “But this is my high mantle! What the devil is he at?” A sudden thought took his eyes from the cloak to the boy’s face. “Is the aulfella dead then? The Earl?”
     “Aye, sure isn’t that what I’m tryin’ to tell ye!” Gillie swung the pitcher ‘round and splashed water into the basin beside Farleigh.
     A fierce roar parted the white mustache and beard. “Well, damnit boy, out with it!”
     “Shane’s father has died, this week since, and now Shane is going to the stone, to be the new chieftain. The crowd is already gathered at Tullahogue. The hill’s black with them. And Shane won’t wait for the new moon, like the books say…” He grabbed a fresh looking linen that hung from a twisty root tendril above, and tossed it to the naked old poet. “You’d best bestir yourself, Farleigh. I’m tellin’ you, the whole commotion’s in an uproar!
     Farleigh set about his ablutions and, lifting his dripping face from the basin, inquired calmly, “When will he take the oath then?”
     “At sundown today.”
     “What? This very evening?” Gilly’s casual affirmative nod sent the old man into a flurry of motion and bellowing, and set splashes flying like a wet hound shaking off a cold swim. “Balor blink your evil eye! What hour is it now, boy?”
     “Ach, it’s only goin’ the mid day,” Gilly replied, in his most soothing tone. “Shane is waitin’ on ye below, and they can’t hardly start without himself.”
     “Aye, just so…” Farleigh’s alarm gave way to excitement as he relished the boy’s news. “And he’ll not wait for the new moon! By Crom Dubh, he’s the O’Neill right enough. The stars and the planets move too slow for him!” He began wrestling himself into various garments. “Well, what black wind has filled his sails? Tell me all, boy!”
     “Sure I always do sometimes.” Farleigh’s eyes winced and darted to the lad’s, searching for some ironic intent but found not a glimmer. “Ach, Farleigh, stories are galloping into Benburb nearly every hour. First it was news of auld Con O’Neill dying up in Dublin. Then word come in that that new English queen will pick Shane’s brother for the new earl. Well that put the flame to the flax!”
     The poet nodded thoughtfully. “Matthew is the baron right enough. But his unblessed birth will not go well for him under English law. Our law is blind to such matters, but the Saxons despise a bastard.”
     “Ach, go ‘way, Farleigh! Isn’t it King Henry’s get is settin’ on their throne beyond? Bejeweled and crowned? Sure, the Saxons bedizen a bastard!”
     “By the blessed book, boy, there’s a great deal of sense that never found its way into your head! Will ye listen?” The old man marveled at his own patience for it was second only to his great wisdom.
     “Aye, surely, why wouldn’t I listen?” A flutter of Farleigh’s fingers told Gillie he was sitting on something, so he shifted over a bit and tossed a long pair of stockings into the anxious palm. The poet bent to his task and resumed the lesson.
     “Elizabeth doesn’t know she’s a bastard. Her father was widowed every spring. He made sure of it. Buried all his mistakes. Then he changed the religion of his entire realm just to make the girl legitimate. It’s enough to set a cat laughing. The English! There’s a tribe for you! Savages! Starched and buckled! Henry pulled his whole kingdom into Hell after him.”
     “But aren’t you just after sayin’…?”
Farleigh jumped to his feet. “Will you whisht!” He wound a satin belt about his robe. “Give me a hand with this. Arrah, if your tongue was as idle as the rest of you, I’d have peace. Augh! Not so tight!..” The pair of them pushed and pulled and clasped and laced while Farleigh O’Gneeve explained the intricacies of Tudor politics as they appeared to the denizens of Gaelic Ulster.    “Matthew’s claim was English. .   When Shane was still a pup, his father was forced to take the English title 'earl' and forsake his proper title 'the O'Neill'.   Henry Tudor gave him a chain of gold for his troubles.    A collar for his neck, the like you'd set on a prize hound to bring him to heel.    Shane refused to stand beside him, young as he was.   That's when Matthew was dubbed the Baron of Dungannon.
Gilly nodded wisely and inquired sensibly; “Who was Baron before him?”
        Farleigh was taken aback. “There was divil a baron!” he roared. This simple question, bringing into stark relief the enormity of the void to be filled with knowledge, and the complexity of the matters at hand, befuddled and bewildered the old sage. He froze in mid-breath, held a quizzical pause, and expelled the canceled thought as a vast sigh.   “Ah, Gillie, you're too young to remember, but there was a time... There was a time in this place, when there was talk of neither baron nor earl.. When only a strange traveler that you might hear discoursing on a Fair Day, would even know the name of the king of England.   At the hearth, and in the field and forest, there was only news of the O'Neill.”
         Another field of inquiry had opened itself to Gillie who now had an inexhaustible fund of questions to pose. “But Farleigh-”
        The poet raised a silencing palm before him. “Hould yer prate!” He took a long draught from a dusty bottle of wine, turned and pointed the bottle at his young messenger.   “This is a day of the world, boy!   Shane O'Neill steps into his rights this night. Keep your ears cocked, your eyes keen, and your jaw still, and you will have a story for your old age.   One that will draw you a welcome at any fire, and a draught at any pot.” With that, he set himself to gathering up the mysterious utensils and implements that were scattered around the cot.
        Gillie kept a watchful eye on the wily old scholar while he knocked back a hearty slug of his wine.   “Aye, Farleigh, just so.   It's a sweet sound a silent mouth makes. And, sure, mine'll be the sweetest you never heard in your life”.
        “Whisht!! I heard something!” Farleigh brandished an upraised palm again and cocked an ear for listening, but the boy’s mind, if it could be said, was elsewhere.
     “I'll be as quiet as an egg in the thatch. People will be wonderin' where all the quiet is comin' from, and I'll not even open my mouth to tell them it's me.   Ach, just wait til ye hear!“ There was a fierce tug at the back of his neck. The old poet had him by the scruff.
        “One more chirp, and I'll split you!” The briefest silence ensued, broken by the boisterous whinny of a horse, followed by a deep and unmistakable voice.
      “Farleigh! Farleigh, Are you down there?”
      “Here he is, in on us now!” Farleigh drew up a mighty breath and called out toward the cave’s bright threshold. “Shane?!” He loosed his grip on the boys collar and nodded. “ Bundle up those things.” As the poet moved towards the cave’s opening, that portal of light was eclipsed by the crouching figure of Shane O’Neill stepping in out of the brightness.

Excerpt # 2         (from Chapter 8)

      In the upper quarters of Benburb Castle, the faint wash of first-light was stealing into the nooks and corners of O’Neill’s bedchamber, sketching out the dim shapes of the room, and slowly overtaking each shade and shadow of night. Kathryn lay awake, nestled up against her plush eiderdown bolster, peering out at the vague colorless world before her. If only the night would linger! A frisky morning wind was whistling about the creaking casements, trying to find its way in. And the jackdaws! She was determined to banish from her mind the insistent rasping plaints of those troubled jackdaws in the courtyard below. It was surely they who had wakened her! Roused her from a wonderful dream that now eluded her memory.
      She closed her eyes and tried once again to recall it, but instead she became aware of the slow rhythmic swell and sigh of the slumbering man beside her. With each heave and roll of his chest, and the low rumble and purr of his breath, the bed itself seemed to breathe like a warm living thing, and soon a kind of quiet lazy rapture settled in upon her, to feel so cozy with the heat of him under the quilts and coverlets. Like a womb. She laid her palms flat upon her swollen belly. Near onto five months.   She had felt him today -yesterday now. Not a kick as yet, but a stirring. Life.
Yes, felt ‘him’. Old Farleigh must be right. How queer it was! Before she knew, herself. He told her she had a right broody look about her, that she was flushed and glowing with new life. And she had instantly accepted his verdict, for there had been a strange elation those weeks that she couldn’t account for. And Farleigh said ‘he’ would be fine and healthy.   So that was that.
      A little catch in Shane’s breathing now hastened the drowsy tempo of his soft bellows. Kat noted a sudden tremble, and even a furrowing twitch in his brow, and she smiled to think what sort of dream possessed him here at her side. He was leagues and miles away. Already. In just a few short hours she would watch from this window as he and his men disappeared into the far hills beyond the Blackwater. By tomorrow this bed would be still; a cold barren expanse with little comfort for a lonely heart.
      But no. Such notions only weaken the spirit. She let her thoughts flit from perch to airy perch, considering first her French tapestry that graced the wall before her. Its colours could just be discerned now in the faint morning light, but they were still a mere whisper of the vivid hues that she loved so. She could hear Pishogue purring outside the door. He would be some wee comfort round the bed, settling into the pillows, preening and waiting to be petted and stroked. It had taken everything to coax Shane to keep his two hounds out of the room. “Smelly aul beasts,” she thought, “all fleas and slobber. Not fastidious like Pishogue. He’d let the pair of them lie across the bed with him, drooling and scratching!”
      “Still, he’s coming ‘round. London will smarten him up to refinements. Thanks be to God Kildare is going along. You couldn’t trust them. Who would be up to them? For treachery. Two months of a journey, he says. We’ll see. Elizabeth would be mad to let him escape her clutches. And she’s not mad. Not by a long taper. He’s never been to London. Even if he doesn’t come to be locked in the Tower, it could be the ruin of him. Just seeing the scope of that city, the fleets, and the riches. It could well slacken his resolve. He’s that cocksure, charging over these hills, but perhaps if he knew the leviathan that lay beyond them, he would lose his mighty spirit.” Still there was no more question of stopping him than the tides.   Or the cool grey morn that was, yes, that was settling into the room. Below in the courtyard, a cock crew now to put its seal on the matter.
       Shane stirred with a single long snore, stretched and turned the broad of his back to her, then fell back into his even slumber. As the blankets shifted she could smell the salty sweat of him. She sniffed at her own soft shoulder, wondering did she smell of last night’s exertions, but it was mostly a rosy remnant of her French perfume that lingered still. “Will he take me again this morning?” she wondered, and slowly ran her fingers through her hair, freeing the silky tresses that were bunched flat against the pillow. “He will of course, for he’s a brute! But I have a wee power over him, all the same. He’d go through hoops in Hell to get me stirred up for him. I waited long enough for it. After those two pasty paunchy old men, I couldn’t abide the naked touch. Small wonder! Now I long for it. When he was away last, I ached for him! And now when I need him, he’s off again for the Dear knows how long, and the blackest days of winter closing in.” She ran her hands lightly over the swell of her belly. “He’ll not worry himself of my fidelity while he’s gone! Leaving me in this state. And he’s off to hoor his way through the brothels of London. I’ll be fat as a broody aul hen, scuttled in the high heaths of Tirowen, without so much as…” The cock crowed again. And again.
Shane rolled over onto his back, expelling a long drowsy sigh. Suddenly he opened his eyes and bolted upright. Kat gave his back a gentle stroke. “Be easy for yourself, love. It’s only second cockcrow. The world is only beginning to stir.”
      “Aye, the wagons are packed.” He yawned and stretched his massive shoulders. “There’s naught to be done ‘til the boys are assembled and the drays are harnessed and hitched.” He turned his drowsy eyes to Kathryn and she could see the sleep leaving them, as they grew bright and piercing. Her disheveled hair seemed to capture all the light in the room, and her face was fresh as dew. Her blue eyes regarded him with softness, and she watched as the first flicker of a wicked glint met her tender gaze. He lay back and reached his arm under the coverlets til his big hand rested lightly on her belly. Kathryn smiled.
      “Aye,” she said, “he’s still there.” She sighed and tilted her head. “He’s not gone off to London on me, at any rate.” Shane laughed low and quiet. “What manner of husbandry is it, Shane O’Neill, to sow your seed, and leave your field to the wild winds?”
      “Will I tell you to stay out of the winds now? Or is it a fine shawl you’re after?” His hand gently stroked her belly, finding its way to the warm moist flesh below, and Kathryn trembled under his touch. He laid his head on her shoulder, his short rough beard scratching against her fine silky white skin. She breathed deep and nestled her head against his tousled black hair. She spoke into his ear with a lazy little voice, chiding him playfully.
      “A fine shawl, is it? You had better bring me more nor that from the high shops of London. Leaving me lumbered with this great belly, while you go off catting about …”
      Shane sprung up onto his knees, and drew himself over top of her, his two strong arms outstretched above her shoulders. His grey eyes glistened as he bore slowly, slowly, down upon her. He spoke in the deepest whisper.
      “Do you think I can bear to be parted from you? It’s little you know me, Countess Kat!”

Excerpt # 3         (from Chapter 9)

      “The tower?   Put him in the Tower, say you?” Elizabeth’s radiant smile had vanished; her cheeks suddenly tight and ashen; her eyes were fire and ice. “Good Thomas, methinks you show sudden brave to turn our thoughts to the tower.   You bluster at court and blanche in the field!”
His ears burned red under her fiery gaze, and Sussex felt long moments pass as he groped for a rejoinder. He had only now arrived in London, and had thought the matter closed.
      “Alas, Lord Sussex was not in the field.”   Sidney could not resist such a silence. “Had he but ventured there with his army, he would doubtless have acquitted himself nobly.” The malice of Sidney’s hollow defense was not lost on Sussex, but it gave him cause to shift his eyes from the Queen’s withering glare, and he found his speech.
      “Lord Ormonde was deathly ill, your Majesty, and I could-”
      “And so he stayed abed!” Elizabeth thundered over him. “Wherefore had you cause to shirk the fight and foray? Was it to hold his hand, and mop his brow?   You sent our army abroad without a captain, to convulse like a headless chicken in the field!”
      “I sent George Stanley in my stead, with Fitzwilliam, and Wingfield. I judge them able officers to lead the-”
      “Wingfield? Will you look us in the face and call an ass a stallion?” She held her stare, a basilisk peering into his soul. “Is this why he stands unpunished for his cowardice? Ill fortune in battle may be put to ‘chance of war’, but when cowardice stands cause there must be penalty!” When at last Sussex parted his lips and drew a breath to make reply, she cut him off once again. “If you will abide this white feather in your ranks, I will not. You will answer for it, my Lord Sussex!”
      “My soldiers were beset by pestilence. And the engagement was most strange. And sudden. Out of keeping with all custom and habit!   Experience, that great tutor of generals, has taught us not to expect a charge in the field from these rebels.   Never before durst Scot or Irishman look an Englishman in the face in the open plain!”
   The brief silence that followed as the Queen considered allowed Sidney to strike again. “And now John O'Neill - in a plain three miles away from any wood - has, with scarce half your numbers, charged our whole army; and was like in one hour to have left not one man of that army alive!
“There is enough, good Harry!” Her eyes flared and just as quickly softened. “We are advised of this. ‘Though not by our captains!”
Sussex ignored this reproach, and made his plea. “Provisions, your Highness.   Supplies and proper soldiers.   We disburden the prisons of thieves.   We rob the taverns of tosspots and ruffians. We scour both town and country for rogues and vagabonds.   Ill used and ill payed, they cannot but fail against these wild Irish, who skip like goats through those very bogs. They fight in companies of brothers and cousins, and make a great show of valour before their clans.”
Elizabeth looked from Cecil to Sidney for a reply. Sidney obliged, after shaking his head and expelling a weary breath.   “Your Majesty's soldiers are indeed ill used if this be their lord deputy, for on the field and in the Court he has used them ill.   I shame to hear it!”
Cecil, suddenly aware of the Queen’s impatient glare, stepped in to defend the Lord Deputy. “Was that kingdom in such goodly state of governance when you tended it as deputy, Lord Sidney?   I recall it not so.”
“My troops were used seldom, and only when victory was assured.” He turned to the Queen.   “Not only has this defeat cost us cannon and weaponry and faithful soldiers… But yet the tidings of this loss have taken from us that very dignity whereon loyalty doth fix its yoke. Such a defeat will breed more rebels, and embolden those malcontents who chafe and grumble to take up arms and fight for O’Neill.”
Sussex’ dark eyes narrowed and he threw his head and shoulders back. “Like Lord Kildare, you purchased your peace -and dearly paid for it with the Queen’s honour! When O’Neill spurned -and most publicly spurned, your summons to Dundalk, you deigned to attend upon him at Fedan, and to further appease him, even stood gossip to his infant child! And this contravening the Statutes of Kilkenny, a law of some two hundred years standing.”
Sidney countered with a low, even, victorious tone. “And thereafter had we peace from him! And peace from those who feared him, for he pledged to uphold the Crown. And this not at the Queen’s expense!”
Some sudden commotion took their eyes to the double doors leading to the next chamber. It was the Long Gallery at Whitehall, filled with an expectant crowd of courtiers. There was an uneasy murmur like distant thunder, and audible gasps portending some calamity or wonder. Cecil bowed to the Queen and disappeared through the massive portal. When Elizabeth returned her gaze to Sidney, he turned to Sussex and continued his calm tirade.
“Only your defeat has cost the Queen’s honour. Even within the Pale is heard the mockers laugh.   Sorley MacDonnell's Scots have taken CarrickFergus which was a loyal English town.   O'Neill did follow hard upon this battle with more raids, exacting tribute, and adding legions to his force til now - but for the Scots- he is sole captain of Ulster.”
“Sole captain he is not!” Elizabeth could abide no more. “Has he not come to London to submit to his sovereign queen?   We have many captains, Henry Sidney, to order our provinces, and most like Ulster is quiet today, and our treasuries undiminished for some hours.” The great doors parted again, and Cecil bustled in brandishing a large scroll. “What is the hurlyburly?   Is O'Neill come then?”
“Indeed he is, Highness.” He cast a backward glance at the doors, and shook his head.   His eyes wide, he lowered his voice to a half whisper. “And lo, what spectacle he makes! A magnificent train of Irishry and a guard of galloglass arrayed in the richest habiliments of their country-”
“Is the Court assembled?” Elizabeth peered into her looking glass and patted a wayward curl.
“Filled.   And never have I seen such 'stonishment here.   All imagine that they behold a potentate from such distant quarter as China or wild America. They stand amazed, and gape as before a wild beast of the desert!” Cecil saw the Queen’s gaze fall upon the scroll in his hand. “O'Neill bids me bring your Majesty this parchment he has fixed with his seal.”

       She took it, absently laid it on the desk, and looked intently at nowhere in particular. Then she demanded, “Is the ambassador of the King of Spain present?”
      “Yes, Highness, Bishop de Quatro is in attendance.   So also are most other envoys and ambassadors to court. Perhaps it will be best to seem unmoved by the spectacle before you, now you stand warned of it.”
The young queen tugged at her bodice, and turned smiling. “Me likes this well enough!   A splendid submission out of Papist Ireland will make a nice show to those courts that would undo us.” She looked to each and let her smile rest upon Sussex, who supposed foolishly that a response was warranted. Once more he plead his case.
“This is no submission.   The horse is not yet broke.   I do implore your Majesty to withold this pardon, and in the tower to withold this traitor!”
She froze. Her eyes flashed with rage. “Get out!!!   Dare you presume to tell us our office?   There is sealed safe conduct. With thanks owing to your bungling! We must needs do what is fair and just!” When no-one moved she raged the louder. “Out!   Both of you! Would we had such resolute men as John O'Neill in our service, we would not be forced to treat with rebels in our court!” Sussex and Sidney scrambled awkwardly out the door bowing behind them.   The secretary pulled out a chair for her. She sat for a moment with her hands over her face, finally dropping them as she heaved a sigh. “Cecil, I am undone by this dogsplay! Each to chase the other’s tail and all snapping at the crown!”
“With your forgiveness...” He bowed his head and looked up expectantly.
Her voice was tight and controlled, but her eyes bulged with impatience. “Speak your council and fill your office!   What say you then?”
Cecil tilted his head and stroked his grey beard. “You said that you must do what is fair and just.   But your Majesty must do what is expedient in the ordering of her realm.   She must be seen to do what is fair and just.   Therein cuts the edge of statecraft.   The lustre and flash of virtue's sword does well to please the heady crowd, but they like not its dull edge.   So must you brandish it high…but hue your path with the darker blade, the keener edge of statecraft.”
She smiled. “Well taught.   But you would teach a Tudor.” Now her voice climbed in decibels of impatience.    “Do you think me a fool in a child’s frock?   To matter, Cecil.   Speak you!”
“In O’Neill’s absence from Ireland something might be cavilled against him or his for non-observing the covenants on his side; and so the pact being infringed, the matter might be used as thought fit…” His raised brow awaited her approval, so Elizabeth nodded slowly without taking her eyes from his. “You have agreed to withdraw the soldiery from Armagh Cathedral when O’Neill sailed for England.   This you have done.   The terms do not prevent you from returning them there. Different soldiers…?” Elizabeth’s radiant smile urged him on.   “In like wise, his safe conduct says only that he will return safe to Ireland. It does not stipulate how long you will keep him at court...”
The smiling young queen sprang to her feet and kissed his cheek. “Sage counsel.   And 'twere folly not to heed.   Let us turn this visit to account!”

The Long Gallery was thronged with courtiers in their velvets and brocades, shuffling and swirling their rich hues in a sparkling tapestry, vivid and mercurial. Stealthy glances, sharp glares, winks, nods, and meaningful gazes darted over shoulders and starched ruffs, as jealousy, ambition, and vanity stirred the heady crowd. It was the sea of velvet, perhaps, that muffled the surging and rolling din to an indistinguishable throbbing buzz.
“Do you hear that sound, boy?” Farleigh raised a hand before him and halted it, and his pale eyes roved slowly about until they came to rest on Gillie’s. “We’re in the middle of the hive!” He cast his searing glance over the crowd. “These puffed up creatures are the drones. They’re stingless. And they make no honey. They’ve only to keep the queen happy.”
“Why did they make us move back here? We’ll see divil all from here.” Gillie bobbed up onto his tiptoes as he craned his neck from side to side.   “If we were any further back, we’d be in the moat! Did you not tell them we’re with Shane O’Neill?”
“Don’t come that with me, ye little rip! It’s your own fault I lost sight of Kildare and the others! You and your blasted capers. Once we were separated from the herd, we hadn’t a chance. I suppose we must have been spoiling their fine picture.” Farleigh looked down at his embroidered robe and mantle. It was always a source of pride at home, but now it looked almost shabby amidst the bejeweled opulence of the English Royal Court. Certainly Gillie’s tunic was eliciting stares and smirks, with its long fluted sleeves and its short waist; his long hairy legs on view, as high as decency would allow, and his eyes almost hidden behind that shaggy ‘glib’ of dark hair. If there was such a thing as ‘kempt’, he was certainly unkempt…Farleigh tried again to look for Shane through the crowd before him. “Right enough. We’ve come a long road to look at the backsides of these fops and dandies!” He glanced back at Gillie, but the boy had vanished.
Gillie had spotted, above the crowd, a young lad mounting a short ladder of three steps.   He was making a progress along the walls, replacing the withering garlands of holly with fresh boughs. It was Twelfthnight, and evidently there would be a hooly of some kind to mark the end of the Christmas. Gillie slipped through the crowd and, when no one was looking, gave a sharp tug at a hanging garland causing a small length of it to topple. The English lad stepped down sulkily and, muttering, trotted over to see what had happened. As soon as his back was turned, Gillie swiped the wee ‘steps’ and disappeared into the crowd. He made his way to the back, and presented his plunder to the old poet. “’And behold! The last shall be raised up!’ Sit your arse down on this, Farleigh. We can step up ontil it when the shindy gets started.”
“Good on ye, boy! My old shanks are worn out.” Farleigh settled himself on the ‘steps’ and they disappeared under his mantle.
“These is some wild crowds over here. Every day is like a fairday every which where you go!” Farleigh didn’t answer. He was lost in his ruminations, stroking his long white beard. Suddenly Gillie burst forth with a rollicking volley of laughter. Farleigh looked up and smiled to see the teary eyed youth caught up so in his mirth.
“What is it, boy?” The auld poet scanned the sights around him, turning his head slowly around like an owl, to see what had tickled the lad. Gillie nodded in the direction of three portly gentlemen in broadstriped tunics of amber and black. As he winked the tears trickled down his merry cheeks. Farleigh scrunched up his features, and arched his shaggy white brows by way of silent inquiry.
“The cut of them!” Gillie answered in a throbbing staccato catching his breath and laughing. “They do look like bumbly bees! Their big wobbly arses all bloated out -atop their spindly black legs! And the…and the…and the bumbly stripes on them!” Now Farleigh was laughing too, his head thrown back, and his eyes tearing up in the contagion of merriment. Gillie pounded on the aul fellow’s knee to direct his attention. “Them are the most comical pantses I ever seen a man wear!” He cast his mocking gaze, now, at a tall gangly fellow whose blousy pleated galligaskins more than doubled the size of his hips. As if sensing their mocking eyes, the man turned around sharply, and sniffed disdainfully at them. The rosy circles on his white powdered cheeks, and possibly the dangling earrings, set Gillie off again into a peal of bright laughter. “God help us if we can’t beat these English! They’re a right shower of ‘butterflys’! Our Shane O’Neill is the only proper man here!”
           Farleigh shook his hoary old head and sighed, as he cast his pale eyes over multitude.   “Only the drones. These are only busy buzzy little drones in the queen’s hive.”

Excerpt # 4    (-also from Chapter 9)

Somewhere a massive door was heard to close, and it’s thud and clank reverberated in the stillness, compounding the air of tension and expectancy in the hall.
The Herald’s footsteps could be heard as he stepped forward to the docket. Many fancied they could hear him drawing his deep breath as he was about to commence. “On sixth of January, Twelfthday, in the third year of the reign of Her Highness Elizabeth Queen of England and Ireland, sits this court at the pleasure of the Queen's Majesty.   First order the submission and indentures of O'Neill the Great, Cousin of St. Patrick, friend to the Queen of England and enemy to all the world besides...” Tittering could be heard among the courtiers, but it was soon overtaken by the clank and thunder of forty mailed Irish warriors rising to their feet and marching into place.
They moved to their formation in tight lockstep, then came to halt in rows of eight, each one a full pace from the next. Shane called out an order. “Umhlaigi!” The huge warriors now marched in place with a short syncopated step, well drilled for the display. They swung their battle-axes over their heads, left to right, with a loud whoop, and struck the floor as they as they descended together onto one knee. Shane stalked out before them and faced the throne. His deep voice called out in Irish “Mise O’Neill” which means ‘I am O’Neill.’ He dropped now to his knees, and as he did so, the gallowglass lay forward, prostrate before the queen.
Shane now launched into a most extraordinary exertion of histrionics for the delectation of the crowd and queen. His arms up before him, fingers spread wide, his head thrown back as he rocked back and forward from his knees. He howled and shrieked his ‘mea culpa’ in Irish, and if there was some sly mockery in it, the fierce conviction of his ‘keening’ left him beyond reproach. Elizabeth had a fair notion of what the miscreant was required to say, and she held the scroll before her but never gave it a glance. The wild spectacle at her feet was far too riveting. The Court heard only a frightening spate of strange wailing Gaelic.
His actual words in Irish, as he spoke them before his delegation and his gallowglass, were a good deal less abject than his tone or posture, and certainly less so than the text in the still unseen scroll, which read as follows:
“Oh, my most dread Sovereign lady and Queen, like as I, Shane O’Neill, your Majesty’s subject of your realm in Ireland, have long time desired to come into the presence of your Majesty to acknowledge my humble and bounden subjection, so am I now her upon my knees by your gracious permission, and do most humbly acknowledge your Majesty to be my Sovereign lady and Queen of England, France, and Ireland; and I do confess that for lack of civil education I have offended your Majesty and your laws, for which I have required and obtained your Majesty’s pardon. For that I most humbly, from the bottom of my heart, thank your Majesty, and still do with all humbleness require the continuance of the same. I now, in the presence of the Almighty God -Father, Son, and Holy Ghost- faithfully promise that I intend by God’s grace to live hereafter in the obedience of your Majesty as a subject of your land of Ireland. And because this my speech, being Irish, is not well understood, I have caused this my submission to be written in English and Irish, and thereto have set my hand and seal.”
When he came to the end of his impassioned oration, Shane threw himself forward flat out before the Queen and begged mercy of her, howling, “Dean trocaire orm!” This was followed on by his recumbent Gallowglass, who echoed the Irish word for mercy, “ Trocaire!”
After a moment of stunned silence, Elizabeth handed the scroll to Lord Cecil, and rose from her throne, tall and regal. She clasped her delicate white hands together before her, and dropped them to rest at her waist, with a wan smile that was both warm and sad. “We do accept your oath of fealty, John O'Neill.”   Shane rose up onto his knees. A tearful smile brightened across his face, and he brought his right knee up to rise. A sudden gasp from the assemblage stopped him short. He looked to Elizabeth in inquiry, and she spoke. “But we cannot yet grant that pardon which you seek...for, though you plead on your knees, yet your offences do stand against you.   We are apprised that our good and loyal subjects O'Donnell and his Lady, with Maguire and O'Reilly are imprisoned in your keep, contravening our Lord Deputy Sussex. Your deeds do mock your oaths, O'Neill, as hollow oaths do mock this court!
Not a gasp, not a whisper, not a breath could be heard in the Long Gallery. Shane’s smile never dimmed. He held up his right hand and spoke with conviction and sincerity. “Your Highness, I swear before you, I've not traveled these many leagues and miles to mock your court.   But on this Feast of Epiphany, like the weary Magi, I come but to honor and witness your radiant majesty-”
“Have a care in your travels, wise man. You are nearing the rocks of blasphemy!” The queen’s tone was dark and threatening, but bright laughter echoed through the gallery, easing the fraught atmosphere. Shane, himself, laughed appreciatively, his eyes shining with confidence.
“When I have told your Majesty a true accounting of the treachery of her captains in Ireland, who use her seal and office in certain blasphemy, and keep that state from civil order, my offences will prove kind offices in her dutiful service!”
“We do not doubt it...if the tale were the deed.   But tell us of the matter at hand, O'Donnell and the rest.”
“They are lawfully detained, Highness. It is my bounden duty for your honor, to uphold the law of that kingdom.   It must be remembered that my territories have never been shired, nor has English law been established in these lands beyond the Pale of Dublin.   Should the Brehon laws be flouted with impunity, that realm would be without law.   Any man who would see it so does no service to your Honour.”
“Yet you daily flout the rule of our Lord Deputy there.” She unclasped her hands and rested them akimbo atop her skirts, her chin forward in a challenging posture. She was prodding and testing, without anger. Shane sat back on his heels and folded his arms, a brazen pose for a kneeling supplicant.
“I had no word from him 'yea' or 'nay' since he arrived in Ireland.   He answered not one of my nine letters to his person, nor did he forward my letters to Council.   He entered my territories in arms.   He made attack on your loyal subjects there.   He burnt their crops and their homes..   Had I been sluggish in my office, in protecting her Majesty's subjects and the law that represents her justice there, I should hardly be fit to serve your Grace.”
Elizabeth now folded her arms and nodded slowly as her faint smile grew brighter and brighter. “We will grant you this pardon which you seek, John O’Neill, and we do bid you to rise.” Shane rose to his feet, and his recumbent retinue of gallowglass rose to bended knee. A rustle and murmur stirred through the hall like a sudden gust through the trees. A sharp turn of the queen’s head and the quick flash of indignation in her dark eyes brought all to stillness.
“You are well and fit to plead your case. We will hear more of this anon when our time affords us. In the matter of your claim to succeed Con O'Neill as Earl of Tyrone over the claims of Brian MacBaron O'Neill, your remittance and indentures shall await our further considering.” She turned to her Lord Secretary. “Cecil, let the Baron’s son be summoned hither to plead the validity of his patents. Meantimes, you will have liberty within this court and to the bounds of the city of London.” She paused for an instant to collect any stray thoughts. “Though your Latin is bright and ready, still you would do you well to learn the English tongue, and to school yourself in the civilities attaining to your station. We do welcome you to Court!”
“I thank your Majesty! Might I be allowed to attend your master of horse, Lord Robert Dudley, that I might learn to ride after the English fashion? I should like to learn to run at the tilt, to hawk, to shoot and, oh, to use such other good exercises as that good lord is so apt unto!”
Her quick glance at Dudley’s affirmative nod settled the question. “If dear Robin be amenable, we shall be well pleased withal!   She turned, smiling, and made her way from the dais as the players struck up their fanfare. The murmuring of the astounded crowd rose to a frantic din that resounded through the Long Gallery, waves of fevered pitch rising and falling, surging and seething, like the buzzing of a hive.

Excerpt # 5    (from Chapter 15)

“Oh, here is a sight! Our wild Irishman makes a proper comely English gentleman!” Elizabeth beamed radiantly at her Court in the presence chamber of Whitehall Palace. Seated on a broad Roman chair with its inverted arches of oak, she was surrounded by her smiling ministers of state. Lord Cecil stood at her shoulder, with Sidney and Sussex at either side, along with Bacon and the rest, all planted firmly on the plush red carpet. Her ladies were present, as well as a number of courtiers. Noticeably absent was Sir Robert Dudley. “Mark you what goodly effect John O’Neill’s time at Court has wrought! The tailor, too, must we credit for plying his art, with stitch and snip and needling done, til outward show does now conform to the noble spirit within!”   There was soft laughter and gentle applause. Shane stood proudly before her, with his genial smile. “Good John, tomorrow being the Sabbath, you would do us much honour to accompany us!   Will you escort your Queen to the Service of Common Prayer?” With this prickly challenge, the eyes of her smiling courtiers narrowed now, betraying perhaps just a tingle of bloodlust. Such a covert opening thrust by the Queen signaled that they might soon have at him. Shane replied with artful diplomacy, breezy and bright.
“It does her Majesty honor and wins her grace to attend such service, and yet…for me to breach a precept of my church would imperil my soul.   I must decline.” Elizabeth smiled coldly and tilted her head.
“And when you attend mass each day in the Spanish Embassy, does Bishop DeQuadra discuss the state of your soul? Or is it matters of state that require his conferal and blessing!” Shane flashed her a roguish smile as intimate as a wink.
“We are sinners all, every son of Adam.’ Her eyes flared.
“Are we indeed! What says deQuatro of whoring and wenching? Is it true that your queen is the only woman at Court that you have not wooed?”
“I have not yet departed, your Majesty!” Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself, and Shane continued. “My office is not to be a saint. The mild chief who would store up graces would soon have need of them.   Indeed, he would find e'er long that his kingdom were not of this world!”   Elizabeth laughed gaily now, and looked smiling to her ministers.
“Is this Irish charm, or more of Blarney?” They laughed obligingly, and she turned back to Shane with a coquettish smile. “You have a ready wit. A ready wit, for fair!” Shane shifted his weight with a subtle hint of physicality. He lowered his head and looked up at her with a sly grin.
“I stand ready from toe to top to serve my queen.” There were gasps and giggles from the Ladies, but dark murmurs from the men, compelling Cecil to chance a thrust.
“How does your Spanish confessor acquit you of sottish inebriety?” The others laughed, and, emboldened by the Queen’s acquiescent smile, Sussex added his rebuke.
“Whoring and drunkeness do not trouble the Romish soul.   His priest will absolve all!” The Queen rounded on him, stilling the incipient laughter of the crowd.
“Enough! We will not countenance a Puritan inquisition.” Sussex’ smile vanished. Shane’s did not.
“Majesty, the matter is thus.   My humours need the occasional combustion brought of spirits- and if this bloodless coxcomb mislikes it, so much the better. The fops and dandies of a Lady's Court in London will not make the fashion in the woods of Tirowen. In despite of these refineries, I am no courtier. I am the O'Neill.”
“Ah, to matter!   Now we come to it!” She sat back, her elbows out over the arms of the chair, tilting her head back so that she peered down her regal nose at him.   “You have taken to yourself the proscribed title of the O'Neill, a title renounced for all time and ever by your father in this very court!” Her ministers edged in closer around her, leering with malice. Shane folded his arms, but his smile remained.
“Upon my father's submission, it is true that he did forfeit the lands of Tirowen unto King Henry, and renounced the ancient right of O'Neill-”
“Upon his rebellion!” Sussex’ outburst was checked by a stern glance from her Majesty. When Elizabeth turned again to Shane, he continued in patient tones to explain the issue.
“The King did then grant to him those lands as the Earl of Tirowen- making him owner where he was before but an officer.”
“But an officer?” She was genuinely perplexed. “He was the O'Neill, was he not?”
“The O'Neill is but a captain of his lands- by election of the people of Tirowen- from among the direct line of O'Neill blood. Under the law of the Brehons, the only law thus far established in Ulster, authority and power of his office is conferred by the people- so that the lands belonged to the people of Tirowen and in keeping only to my father's office.   Legally, he could forfeit no more than his own interest which he had but during his life - and then, upon his death it was in the country to make a new O'Neill.” After a momentary silence, Elizabeth turned her head and looked, smiling, over the high sparkly ruffs at her shoulder, to engage her expectant ministers. She spoke with caustic merriment.
“The power of governance is conferred by the people?!” Reassuring laughter filled the chamber, derisive and darkly excessive. “This barbarous system were not law, but its very undoing!   A base usurping of divine appointment!   Lucifer was banished from Heaven for lesser affront!” Her riposte was met with a burst of genteel applause. Shane stood proudly, his composure undisturbed, awaiting silence. He nodded to acknowledge the Queen, and answered blithely.
“English Common Law is not established in my lands.”
The Queen turned to Cecil to explain or refute. He bent to her ear and spoke quietly. “Ulster is not yet shired, your Majesty.”
Shane pressed his point. “Even in the Pale and shireland, its writ does not allow protection to the Irish clans. We are not let avail of it, though it is commonly invoked against us.” As the Queen considered, Sussex stepped boldly into the breach.
“Still, your assuming title of O'Neill upon your father's death did usurp the rights appointed by legal patent to Matthew O'Neill the Baron of Dungannon. There can be no dispute in this.”
“Matthew's rights were themselves usurped.” Shane turned back to Elizabeth and explained.   “He was a bastard. He was fully sixteen years in age when his mother brought him forward.” Sussex edged closer to directly engage Shane.
“Were he or were he not Conn O'Neill's son, yet he was so accepted and declared to be by your father.” Again Shane addressed his remarks solely to her Majesty.
“My father considered it mannerly never to refuse such claims.   And yet under English law or Irish law, this patrimony cannot be sustained...for this woman was married at the time of his birth.   He was called Matthew Kelly until her husband's death, and only then presented to O'Neill.   He is a Kelly. Any farmer in England will avouch, "The calf belongs to the owner of the cow- not to the owner of the bull.”
Elizabeth raised her outstretched palm at her side to stay Sussex from responding. She sat forward, engaging the argument with spirit. “Yet he was granted a legal patent to succeed.    Made not 'to male in tail' but directly to him.   What say you now?” A sprinkling of tentative applause. Shane leaned back, his arms akimbo, and his eyes merry.
“That King Henry was deceived in the claim, and therefore it was not legally binding.   No more nor should your Majesty be tricked, would she be bound to uphold a perjured claim.”
With a raised brow, Elizabeth turned to her courtiers, now this side, now that, to see what answer might be had. Finding only bemusement, she smiled at Shane.
“There is more in this than Irish glib. Your claim, if it bear closer study, mayhap might merit you an earldom!” Cecil cleared his throat, and her bright smile vanished. In its place appeared a smile of pity and condescension. “Alas, nothing can be determined until we examine the patents of Brian O’Neill, the undisputed heir, certainly, to the Baron of Dungannon, if not the Earl of Tyrone. He has been summoned, and will not be long in coming.”
“You Majesty, I-” Elizabeth silenced Shane with her raised hand.
“Again, we see that you have made request to return into Ireland, and again we must bid you be patient. These matters demand a sound hearing and you must, perforce, bide with us for some time longer. We will submit these depositions to Council and consider us by their instruction. For now you may withdraw.”   Shane made a courtly bow.
“God save the queen's majesty!”

Excerpt # 6 (from Chapter 17)

“There's no use trying to get a rise out of me, lad. I know you'll not attack the Scots. Apart from ties of kith and kindred, they’ve-”
“I signed a pledge in London.”
“Pish to that!” Farleigh straightened his back, and turned to face Shane across the narrow table where he stood. “A prisoner's oath doesn't travel well. She only freed you because she fears Mary and the Scots.”
“Let her fear them in Scotland. When I have them routed, she's sworn to remove the English garrison from Armagh. That's both of them gone out of Ulster.” The old fellow folded his arms over his long beard, and tilted his head to one side, assuming an ironic treacly tone of wonderment.
“Who would be up to you? The both of them gone...”
“Oh, I'm a good scholar.   And I've a good lesson learned in England.”
“You may have taught them a few tricks too.” When Shane said nothing, Farleigh took the bait. “What did you learn?”
“Sovereignty!” Shane’s eyes were bright with triumph, but Farleigh pished again.
“That's a wispy sort of a notion!”
“Not to Elizabeth Tudor. She has it, and she knows exactly what it is.   Now I've seen it. I know the look, the taste, and the smell of it. It's solemn and lethal, with parchments and drumrolls, but it's cold blood on bright steel-for anyone who threatens the power. Even a barren wife! Dispatch with dispassion! Farleigh was wincing and gurning at this, as if he were encountering various wafts of stench, but Shane pressed his argument. “It's absolute. A man who is not loyal is a traitor. Either I am loyal to Elizabeth, or I am her enemy. Either Sorley MacDonnell is loyal to me or he is my enemy...”
“Either or!   This or that!   Such English foolishness!   The world is seldom 'this or that'.   The world is mostly 'this and that'.” Farleigh laughed triumphally.   “Oh, ho! The English have many things for a man to steal, but wisdom is not one of them.” Shane held up his goblet, as a toast.
“The English have logic.” He smiled smugly, and drank.
“Logic indeed! Life is not logical! It is random and explosive, like roses and clouds!” The two contenders leaned in to each other over the table.
“I used logic in London, and I won the day from her lawyers! Logic is a powerful weapon. A kingdom is ordered with logic.”
“With law! A kingdom is ordered with law.”
“Law is logic.” Shane gave him a smirking victorious nod, but Farleigh was unbowed.
“Our Brehon law is not based on logic. It's based on fairness. And fairness is not logical! ‘Power takes all.’ There is logic!”
“Ah! Now you have me! ‘Power takes all!’ That's my plan.” Farleigh looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head.
“Oh, you're very glib, Shane O'Neill. But you've stopped listening to your heart, and there's no good can come of it. Sacred blood ties and sacred oaths cast aside for a golden chain-”
“God blast the damned oaths and pledges!! They're only words, man!   Do you think the English crown gives a thought for oaths? Or blood ties?   Her father shifted Heaven and Hell, burned cathedrals and wives to ensure his dynasty. A dynasty that was but fifty years old.   The House of O'Neill has stood for a millennium. Til I can set it aright, all my oaths are captives' oaths! My pledges are weapons.   My words are knives!”
Farleigh’s pale eyes started. Shane saw that the old fellow was looking past him to behold some alarming sight. He turned to see Kathryn standing against the door, her hands behind her. Her foxy hair was longer now, tumbling onto her shoulders, and the light summer frock showed that she had already recovered her shapely form, more fleshy and buxom than he recalled. There was a wild look on her. Her face was flushed with anger, though there were tears standing in her eyes. She laughed bitterly.
“Amn't I the fool of the world! Prisoner of a prisoner. Intriguing with Elizabeth's menials.” She stepped into the room. “And poor O'Donnell! I've delivered up one hopeful courtier into the hands of another. Earls, is it? Of what?”
“The 'Countess' is entitled to laugh...”
“A Scottish title for a Scottish noble.   Not honours begged from a foreign queen, a bastard usurper!” Kathryn moved past him and stopped suddenly. She closed her eyes, and as the tears spilled onto her cheeks, she quickly pressed her hands to her face. With a bitter shriek of laughter, she dropped them, and shook her head, tossing her flaming hair as she turned to him. “Oh, God forgive me! I laughed at her for believing you. And all the while… I was the fool!”
“Kathryn, I never had planned to-”
“Don't speak to me!!!” Her glistening eyes burned into him. “Your words are knives. That's what you said. And well I know.”
“I was left no choice. I'll not be at the mercy of the MacDonnells! If I hadn't betrayed them-”
“The devil take the MacDonnells! You have betrayed me! You great besotted bastard, do you not understand? Me!   I stayed their swords when Sussex called upon them, offering title and peerage. My people. I delivered up my husband to you that you might defeat the English forces. The Baron’s get would be Earl of Tyrone but for that. And I brought you all of TirConnell.” Her voice quivered now as it softened. “I've shared your bed, and borne your son. Elizabeth has given you nothing. Not even that shiny chain that you covet so.” Kathryn tilted her head to find the right angle of scorn. “She'll never make you an earl. Never!”
“I will rule Ulster. Not Elizabeth. Not Mary. And not the Clan MacDonnell.” Shane’s tone was low and firm.
“The Irish! Treacherous to all but your enemies!” She sniffed, and pressed her sleeve to her wet cheeks, composing herself. “It may be you'll not defeat the MacDonnells. One Scot is worth two Irishmen on a battlefield. Your head will adorn a pike, and it will not have cost Elizabeth so much as a man!” Kathryn looked around her now. The servants had fled the fray, and Farleigh had retreated to a shadowy nook among halberds and shields. She could see Brid peering in at the hall door. In the queer silence, she could hear her own breathing. Some hint of amusement in Shane’s eyes drove her to new fury, and impelled her to surge on. “Well, I'll not be here to mourn you!   I'll not stop here any longer than it takes to pack.” Shane gave a sidling nod and a sly wink.
“You're free to go your road. You always were. When O'Donnell's ransom is paid, I’ll send him after you.”
“Have a carriage readied.” She spoke this to Brid, but it was Shane who answered.
“The child stays.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your ears are quite sound. The son of the O'Neill is not away to Scotland. Are you mad, girl?” Kathryn opened her mouth to speak but nothing would do. She felt a heat rising into her face and her eyes brimmed. Her breath came in quick little huffs, and the tears came in torrents with no sound. Feeling a weakness under her, she sunk down onto a chair, and laid her head upon her arms over the table. Shane came and stood over her. He spoke softly.