Nell by Jeanette Baker Read Free Book Online Page B

earth.”
    Nell watched in fascinated horror as her mother lifted shaking hands to her face and performed the ancient Irish rite of self-immolation, raking her nails across her cheeks until the blood ran down her neck, pooling at the base of her throat, staining the white linen sheets with streaks that would never come clean.
    Beauchamp Tower, London
    The ninth earl of Kildare penned his note carefully. His time was at hand. The message he sent would be the most important one of his life. He was doomed, as were his four brothers and his son, Silken Thomas. The corners of his mouth turned down bitterly. Silken Thomas , that absurd name earned by the fringed silk bridle Thomas favored for his horse, would be the one engraved on his tomb. Rash, misguided boy. From the day he had called Henry Tudor his enemy and thrown down the standard in Parliament, his hours had been numbered.
    Henry had planned it, of course. He knew the temperament of Fitzgerald’s heir. It was a small matter to circulate rumors of Gerald’s arrest and death in the Tower. What was a devoted son to do but avenge his father’s honor? If only Gerald could have counseled him, sent him word, but it wasn’t possible. He’d been snared as tightly as a gull in the talons of a falcon.
    For their insurrection against the Crown, the Fitzgeralds were to die at Tyburn, all of them, James, Oliver, John, Garrett, and the child born of his passion for Maeve, his firstborn, Silken Thomas.
    Gerald wrote quickly. A black-robed priest who served the true faith waited in the corner. He would carry his missive to Nell. Only Nell could save his younger son. Maeve was—quickly, he pushed away the uncharitable thought. He had known what Maeve was when he married her. It was Maeve’s temperament that Thomas had inherited, and Maeve could not help what she was. Nell was even-tempered like her father. Upon her slight shoulders would rest the future of his house.
    Sprinkling sand over the wet ink, he shook the paper, rolled it, and heated the wax in a small pan over the candle flame. Carefully, he poured it over the scroll and sealed it with his ring before kneeling on the stone floor. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he rasped. “It has been many years since my last confession.”
    â€œContinue, my son.”
    Gerald crossed himself. “For my own gain, I denied Holy Mother Church, and now I must suffer. Forgive me, Father, that I may enter the kingdom of heaven.”
    The priest made the sign of the cross and rested his hand on the great earl’s head. “You will enter the gates of heaven, Gerald Og, but the price will be great. Pray with me.”
    Gerald groaned and folded his hands. After a moment, he looked up. “May I hope, Father?”
    The priest shook his head. “I am sorry, my son. May you rest in peace.”
    Burying his face in his hands, Gerald waited for the summons that he knew would come all too soon.
    ***
    â€œ Mallacht De ar a anam dubh ,” cursed Donal O’Flaherty as he ran down the twisting stairs. It was black as pitch in the entry. The stairs were slippery with wet, and the news he’d just heard sent a chill clear to the base of his spine. The Geraldines were to be killed at Tyburn by order of Henry Tudor.
    Hanged from the neck and while still alive, disemboweled and quartered so that no part of their person shall remain intact.
    By the beard of Christ, was the man a monster? And where was Nell? Weeks had passed since her last letter. Donal knew he never should have left Maynooth without her. His sense of foreboding had grown as the months passed and Gerald Og still had not returned from London. Nell’s letters, reassuring him that her heart was unchanged, had curbed his impatience. Blaming himself for ignoring the warning signals, he shouted for his men, his mail, and the ceithearn that accompanied him everywhere.
    Before the walls of Aughnanure had ceased to echo his