A Love for All Time (79 page)

T
he sky was a peculiar and flat gray-white in color. A misty, steady rain was falling, and there was a stiff breeze blowing off the sea which pushed the coastal freighter briskly along into the mouth of the River Shannon. Lifting his face to the sky Cavan FitzGerald said a rare prayer, and thanked God that he was home in Ireland again.

He had been enormously fortunate to have gotten passage upon the lumbering derelict which carried salted fish and hides to Spain, returning regularly with cargoes of wine filling its hold. Finding the vessel Cavan had paid his passage, and accepted the disgusting, vermin-ridden upper berth offered him in a cabin housing five other male passengers. He had not complained even when night after night they had blown evil-smelling farts and snored out their bad breath until the cabin was almost uninhabitable. He had paid for his water barrel in advance, and brought his own blankets and rations as had been expected of him. He did not socialize any more than was necessary, and it was quite unlikely that the captain of the
Mary Margaret
would even remember him, or be able to distinguish him from any other of the travelers who were forced to seek passage aboard his ship.

The vessel nosed its way up the river some miles, finally dropping anchor opposite the river fortress of a once-powerful Irish earl which now belonged to an Englishman. Part of the cargo would be unloaded into the new lord’s wine cellars, and Cavan FitzGerald went ashore with the first boat. From there it was but a short walk to a nearby village where he was able to purchase a somewhat bony nag to take him to his destination.

He wondered if old Rogan FitzGerald was still alive, or if his damned cousins had at last inherited. No, the old man was still alive. He could feel it in his bones. He was alive, and sitting dead center in the midst of it all just like a spider in his web. His eldest son, and heir, Eamon, would still be waiting for his inheritance if Cavan knew his uncle. And if he knew Rogan he knew, too, that he, Cavan, would have a great deal of explaining to do; but he suspected that he would be able to talk his way out of his predicament for he had ever been his uncle’s favorite. He was more like Rogan FitzGerald than any of his sons.

He shivered as a blast of cold wind blew over him, and he pulled his cape tighter about him, kicking his horse into a faster pace. The time he had spent in Spain had taken the edge off his native-born hardiness, and for the first time in his life he felt the damp chill. If only Ireland could have some of Spain’s sunshine.
Spain.
How he had hated the place! He had never even gotten to meet King Philip. His so-called reward had been handed over to him by some minor court functionary. A barren, broken-down estate on the hot and dusty plains of that cursed country that had failed in the first place by virtue of its very location. St. Patrick himself could not have made that worthless land given him fertile unless he had been able to place a river about it. It was no reward at all, and worse had been his marriage.

The king had generously saddled him with not an heiress of a respectable family, but the bastard daughter of one of his friends, Manuela María Gómez-Rivera. Short and plump and dark Manuela who was pious to a fault; and rarely if ever bathed. Making love to her had been like making love to a farmyard. Unable to escape this fate he had been quickly wed to Manuela by the king’s own confessor who had afterward lectured the blushing bride and her new husband on their Christian duty which was to produce children.

Fortunately Manuela did not enjoy that particular duty of marriage, and so he was able to bed her twice a week and then be left free to dally with the many attractive peasant girls in the village that belonged to the estate. He dallied until his wife found out where he was spending his nights, and scolded him loudly in a shrieking voice. Still not satisfied she had complained to the village priest who had taken him sternly to task regarding his immorality, and his duty to his good and faithful wife.

Cavan, however, had had his subtle revenge. “But, padre,” he said sadly, “Doña Manuela will not grant me my spouse’s rights more than once or twice a week. How can I do my duty by her, and by the church under those circumstances? It is a man’s duty to procreate according to God’s law. The church expressly forbids the spilling of a man’s seed upon the ground, and did I not copulate with the girls in the village I should break God’s law because my wife refuses me.” He bowed his head with apparent shame. “May the Blessed Mother forgive me, padre, but I am weak where the flesh is concerned, and were my wife willing, I should only cleave to her.”

The priest nodded sagely. It was not unusual for a bride to be hesitant, particularly if she were a pious woman as was Doña Manuela. “My son,” he said. “God has made man master over woman and the other beasts of the earth. It is your wife’s duty to obey you in all things, and if she does not, then it is your duty to apply the rod of chastisement to her until she admits her faults, and abides by your wishes. Have you done this?”

“Alas,” said Cavan who had never considered the possibility of beating his wife for he did not care enough, “I am a softhearted man, padre.”

“A soft heart is a good thing, my son, but in your wife’s case you do her no kindness by appearing to condone her willful behavior. She must be made to obey!” He put an arm about Cavan. “You Irish are a race of poets, and I know that your heart is good, my son, but Doña Manuela must not be allowed to wear the breeches in your family. It is a most unseemly thing when a woman takes upon herself the duties of a man. Look to England’s bastard queen. Surely you cannot admire her manly behavior? Your wife must be beaten until she admits her faults, and promises never to disobey you again.”

Cavan had gone back to his house, and with the church’s blessing he had beaten Manuela until her screams for mercy rang throughout the whole village. Then he had raped her, and went off to the taverna to drink the evening away. No one thought the worse of him. Indeed he was lauded by his peasants for setting a fine example for Doña Manuela’s behavior had only recently begun to be copied by some of the bolder women of the village.

From that time on Cavan FitzGerald had made his wife’s life a hell, beating her on the least pretext, and the priest and the villagers had nodded and smiled their approval for a woman was supposed to be a docile and obedient creature. One day, however, Manuela in a frenzy of desperation had threatened to go to her father, the king’s friend, with her complaints, and so Cavan FitzGerald had coolly killed his wife by strangling her, and buried her by himself beneath the dark of the moon, in a shallow grave, at the end of the house’s parched and tangled garden. He was tired of her, and he was tired of Spain.

He explained Manuela’s absence by claiming that his wife had run away, and his servants who had often heard the desperate Manuela threaten such action confirmed their master’s story. Now, Cavan told the irate priest, he must go after his wayward wife, and bring her home. The priest had, of course, agreed, and Cavan FitzGerald had ridden off from the hot and dusty plain never to return again; heading for the coast to find a ship to return him to Ireland where the Spanish authorities would be unlikely to follow him should Manuela’s body be discovered.

Wisely he left what remained of the gold he had received by selling his cousin Aidan into slavery, with a goldsmith who had a cousin in Dublin. His small wealth would be transferred to Ireland, and no one the wiser. Cavan gave a grimace of annoyance. Even there he had not profited by Aidan’s sale, but after the Dey of Algiers had taken his percentage along with Rashid al Mansur, the Spanish king, and Miguel de Guaras, there was precious little left. What there was, however, would remain in Dublin, his secret, his hoard against the day his cousin Eamon came into his inheritance, and possibly removed him from his stewardship. That was if his uncle had not already replaced him.

The landmarks became more and more familiar as the day went on, and finally toward evening the tower keep of Rogan FitzGerald came into view. He pushed his tired mount onward, and as a stain of peach and yellow on the gray horizon to the west announced the sunset, Cavan FitzGerald came home. Dismounting in the stableyard he gave his horse into the keeping of a dirty-faced urchin who gaped at him as if he were back from the dead. With a surprisingly gentle gesture he ruffled the lad’s head, and grinned down at him before turning to enter the keep. With almost eager steps he climbed to the Great Hall, and entered it, his eyes seeking out his uncle, and to his relief finding him, hale and hearty, a tankard in his hand.

“By God, look what the storm has blown in!” came the sneering voice of his cousin, Eamon.

Having learned long ago to give better than he got, he snarled back, “What, Eamon, no welcome home for yer cousin?”

“I thought ye’d gone back to hell from whence ye sprang,
cousin
,” was the mocking reply.

“Where the hell
have
ye been?” demanded Rogan FitzGerald, glaring down from the high board. “Come closer, Cavan! I want to see yer face when ye feed me the pack of lies yer about to feed me. I know that ye and that Spanish weasel failed in yer mission for the O’Malleys of Innisfana still thrive, and good for them, say I! Still it would have been nice to have gotten our hands on my granddaughter’s wealth for Ireland’s coming battle with the English. My granddaughter writes me that she’s expecting a baby soon. She writes me of her happiness with her husband even as my Bevin did long years ago.”

“Ye’ve had letters from Aidan?” Cavan was beginning to feel as if he had entered a bedlam.
“When?”

“Just last week. She and her husband were in France for almost a year, but they’re back home again in England.”

“She wrote in her own hand? Yer certain?”

“Of course I’m certain,” snapped the old man. “I’ve not gone gaga yet, my lad, and I’ll be a long time dead before I do!” Rogan FitzGerald’s eyes narrowed with speculation. “So,” he said, and there was a particularly vicious tone to his voice, “so ye’ve come crawling back to Ballycoille, have ye, nephew? Yer Spanish friends don’t reward stupidity, do they? God knows ’twas a simple enough plan to bring down the O’Malleys, but ye couldn’t do it, could ye, Cavan?

“Ye played in fast company, my lad, and ye’ve got nothing to show for it, have ye? Maybe now ye’ll stay here where ye belong instead of trying to ape yer betters. Nothing will change the fact of yer birth.” He peered down at Cavan. “I suppose ye’ll be wanting yer place back? Well, yer a lucky bastard, nephew, for ye can have it! Eamon’s lad has no talent for it, the young fool, and so it’s yers for life, and yer sons after ye if ye’ll ever settle down and have some, but ye’d best behave yerself, Cavan. Remember that ye owe me for yer very existence, and when I’m gone ’tis Eamon ye’ll owe, if he’ll put up with ye as I have, but then I’ve a soft place in me heart for ye, my lad, haven’t I?”

Cavan FitzGerald nodded, stunned, and even somewhat grateful to have been so easily accepted back into the fold of his family once again. The old man must be growing soft in his dotage. Automatically he sat down in his old place, and a serving wench brought him a trencher filled with mutton, and bread, and winter vegetables. A tankard of ale was placed by his hand.

Aidan in England? How was it possible? He needed to know more, but it would take him time, and besides he had his money put aside at the goldsmith’s in Dublin. He suffered no loss. Still there was Conn. Alive he might demand revenge, but then if he and Aidan were giving out to Rogan that they had been away in France, perhaps he would be safe because they would not want Aidan’s sojourn in Algiers made public. Perhaps he might even benefit from that knowledge. Perhaps Lord Bliss would be willing to pay him to keep that knowledge to himself lest the paternity of his child be in doubt. It was an interesting thought, Cavan considered, but he needed to know more.

When the rest of the family had gone to bed he sat with his uncle as had always been his habit. The old man slept but three or four hours a night, and seemed to need no more rest than that. They had come down from the high board which was now cleared, and they sat together before the roaring fire, their tankards of ale in their hands.

“ ’Tis good to have ye home again,” muttered Rogan.

Cavan chuckled. “Yer children bore ye, uncle, admit it. There isn’t one that’s really like ye for yer an old rogue.”

Rogan chuckled back. “Aye,” he admitted, “I am, and ye, my bastard nephew are more like me than any of my own get.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me now where ye’ve been. On the run I’ve not a doubt.”

Cavan debated a moment, and then he told his uncle the truth, making only slight modifications in the tale. His treatment of Rogan’s granddaughter was to have brought Ireland a goodly fortune had not the damned Spanish and Arabs taken it all. Then they gave him that godforsaken estate, and Manuela, poor girl, who died in childbed, and so he had come home. He had intended to come eventually, but he was still so ashamed that his mismanagement had cost them Aidan’s wealth.

Rogan nodded. “Well,” he said philosophically, “at least yer safe home, lad, and glad I am to see ye. The stewardship of my lands belongs to yer family from now on. Let’s find ye a nice lass, and settle ye down. ’Tis past time ye had yer own children.”

Cavan took a deep breath, and then he said, “There might still be a way for us to obtain Aidan St. Michael’s wealth for Ireland, uncle.”

“How?”
The word was sharp, and precise.

“I have a plan, uncle, and if ye don’t mind killing off an O’Malley or two, we can profit quite handsomely.”

“Go on then,” replied Rogan nodding at his nephew.

“We must bring Aidan to Ireland, uncle. She must come of her own free will.”

“And how do ye think yer going to manage that, my lad? My granddaughter is English-born, and English-bred.”

“There must be something here in Ireland that she wants more than anything else in the world, uncle.”