Prologue

T HIS is all your fault, you meddling old man!" Skye O'Malley Burke shouted at her father-in-law, the MacWilliam of Mid-Connaught. Her blue-green eyes flashed fire, and her marvelous long black hair, unbound and unruly, swirled about her shoulders as she paced furiously about the room. "You've gone and widowed me! Wasn't it enough that your wicked machinations kept Niall and me separated all those years? Now you've widowed me! God curse you for it, old man! I'll never forgive you! Never! " Then she burst into tears, collapsing onto the carved oak settle by the fireplace.

The old man's face disintegrated under her fierce attack, and he seemed to shrink in size, as if seeking to escape the terrible, harsh truth of her words. "How could I stop him, Skye lass? Niall is a man long grown," his voice quavered. "He would not listen to me. How could I stop him?"

She looked at him scornfully, and he withered further under her look of contempt. "You knew that Darragh O'Neil was a madwoman for all her religious calling, old man. You knew! Still you let my husband ride off to her, and to his own death!" She closed her eyes a moment, and more tears spilled down her cheeks. "Oh, Niall," she whispered brokenly. Niall! Niall! Niall! came the mocking echo in her mind.

The old man sniffed piteously as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, then said, "At least we've got the children, Skye lass. We've got Niall's son and daughter."

"You have nothing," she told him coldly. "I will take my children and leave this place. I will go home to Innisfana. I have always hated Burke Castle, but for Niall's sake I lived here. Now my husband is dead, and I will stay no longer!"

Suddenly the MacWilliam grew angry, a bit of his old spirit coursing back through his tired veins. "You'll not take Niall's children from me!" he thundered at her. "They are my heirs, the boy in particular. You cannot take them!"

Her fair features darkened with outraged fury, and he could have sworn that sparks shot from her blazing blue eyes. "Do you think that I would let you have my babes?" she hissed angrily at him. "I'll see you in Hell first!"

"You've no choice, Skye lass. Padraic is my heir with his father gone, and wee Deirdre after him. I'll not let you take them from me!" For a brief moment he felt sure and strong again.

"Old man, you'll not stop me from whatever I choose to do!" Skye O'Malley declared. Then she rose from the settle and stormed from the room, not seeing his tired shoulders slump forward, defeated by the knowledge that she would leave him if she chose, taking his only grandchildren with her.

He coughed deeply and, turning, spit a clot of black blood into the pewter basin on the table. The blood had been coming up for several weeks now. His instinct told him that he did not have a great deal of time left to live. Until now it had not worried him particularly, for his son had been a strong, wise man, mature for his years. Now, however, Niall was dead, and his only living male heir was six weeks old. The babe was strong, but anything was possible. If the child died before reaching his majority the English would eat up his holdings as they had so many in the past several years. They might anyway.

Where had the time gone? the MacWilliam wondered. It only seemed a short time ago that he had been a young man in his full vigor, ready and eager to bed a hot-blooded wench. Now he was but a broken old man, clutching his faded memories and shattered dreams about him like a tattered cloak; his thin white hair lank upon his bony shoulders.

The MacWilliam sighed sadly. God help Ireland—for surely no one else would. The Irish stood quite alone, England to one side of them, the open sea on the other. In a way it was their own fault, for they had no one ruler to rally them, but rather a thousand petty, bickering chieftains, each jealously guarding his own holding, and each making the alliances best suited to himself, not necessarily to Ireland. It was no wonder that the English with their one strong ruler could overcome the Irish. Irishmen, 'twas true, would not be conquered by war, but rather by their own weaknesses.

Still, and here the MacWilliam smiled a dark, grim smile, his beautiful and willful daughter-in-law was a very powerful woman in her own right. In Ireland Skye was the chieftainess of the wealthy, seagoing O'Malleys of Innisfana. Even though the O'Malley brothers were grown, they showed no great hurry to take the familial responsibilities their late father had bequeathed them, far preferring, as he had, to stay on their ships. Skye was the one with the head for business. In England she was the Dowager Countess of Lynmouth, a fine old English title. Her son from that union was the current earl. True, the golden-haired lad was but six years old, but he was the English Queen's godson, and quite in her favor. Even now he was being raised at court, and was Bess Tudor's pet page. The Queen had a weakness for attractive males, even little ones. Yes, the MacWilliam thought bitterly. Whatever happened, Skye O'Malley would survive. She had more damned lives than a cat!

A solitary tear ran down his worn and wrinkled face. If his son had had her blessed luck he might be alive today. Darragh O'Neil! He silently cursed the day he had ever forced his son into marriage with that cold bitch! Niall had originally been betrothed to her older sister, Ceit. That lass had died in an epidemic, but as both the O'Neils and the Burkes were eager for a match between their families, the younger sister had been brought from her convent as a substitute bride. Darragh O'Neil had been within a few hours of taking her final vows, and she was a born nun. She had not wanted Niall Burke. She had not wanted any husband, but after a good thrashing from her father she had done as she was told.

The marriage had, of course, been a disaster. Niall had been wildly in love with Skye O'Malley, then the O'Flaherty of Ballyhennessey's wife; and when she was widowed he was unable any longer to hide that love. His own marriage had been conveniently annulled by Skye's uncle, the Bishop of Connaught, and Darragh had hurried gratefully back to her convent. Niall and Skye were then betrothed, but once more the fates had playfully separated them. Skye was captured by Barbary pirates, lost her memory, and endured much before they were finally reunited. Then, however, she was again another man's wife, and had not even recognized Niall. He, too, had another wife, the unfortunate Constanza, who mercifully died. As for Skye, she also lost her new husband to death, her English husband whom she had loved deeply. By then her memory of Niall had returned, but she had remained true to her Geoffrey, and the MacWilliam admired her for it. She was a remarkable woman, and he deeply regretted the years she and his son had lost.

At last Skye and Niall had been married. Not, mind you, in any fancy ceremony with gladsome feasting afterward, but by proxy. The bride still mourned her English husband in her English castle, not even aware that her wily uncle, the Bishop of Connaught, had taken advantage of an old law that made him technically head of the family, and used that tenuous authority to marry her off. The MacWilliam chuckled hoarsely, remembering the deception he and Seamus O'Malley had used to wed the reluctant pair. His son had gone off to England expecting a warm welcome. He had not received it. The stubborn wench had led Niall a merry chase, almost driving him to violence.

In the end, however, their love had won out as Niall had accepted that his wife was no longer the unworldly girl he had once adored, but rather an intelligent and passionate woman who had been the beloved of other men. She had been on her own long enough to learn to wield the great responsibility that was hers, and she was not about to give up her power to anyone, even a loved husband. What was hers remained hers. When he had accepted Skye for what she was, the marriage had flourished, and been blessed with two healthy, strong children within thirteen months of each other.

The MacWilliam shook his head sadly. It had all been going so well. The Burkes had pledged their fealty to England's Queen in hopes of gaining a measure of peace, in hopes of surviving. Many of the noble Irish families had done the same in order to save their lands and their people. Most had been betrayed, for the English were not only incredibly savage when they chose to be, but insatiably greedy for the sweet green lands of Ireland. Still, they had so far left the Burkes and their own alone. Baby Padraic's inheritance was intact, and the MacWilliam knew that he could trust his daughter-in-law to keep it that way. Had she not fought so valiantly for her English son's lands and title? She would fight as fiercely for her Irish son also, he knew. The wench knew her duty as well as any man, and often did it better.

Skye O'Malley . She was a beautiful and gallant woman, and he wondered if she would ever be allowed any peace. She seemed destined to find love only to lose it through no fault of her own. Damn Darragh O'Neil! Damn her mad soul to Hell! He began to cough again, and his blood, bright hot crimson, streamed and steamed into the polished pewter basin as his tired heart hammered against his thin chest. His son, his handsome fine boy, was dead, and their immortality rested with a suckling infant not even old enough to lift his head up.

Another bout of coughing wracked his ancient frame, weakening him so that for a moment he did not hear the door to his private chamber reopen. There was a gasp, and then Skye's voice said resignedly, "Old man, will you stop at nothing to force me to remain? Will you even die on me now?"

He grinned wanly up at her. "I've had my way in this life almost as much as you have, Skye lass."

She would have laughed, but the sight of his bright blood in the basin sobered her. Instead, she put an arm about his shoulders. "Ah, Rory," she sighed. She used his Christian name only rarely. "Why did you not tell me of the blood?"

"If I'm meant to die now then I'll die," he said fatalistically.

"I'll send for my sister Eibhlin," she said quietly, and then she helped him to rise and reach his bed. He was hard put not to grin mischievously at her, so apparent was her concern over him. Fate had conspired with him to keep her and the children here. She'd not leave a dying man for all she talked.

Eibhlin O'Malley, a nun at the island convent of St. Bride's of the Cliffs, was famed in Connaught for her midwifery and her healing skills. She was in great demand, and her service among the wealthy had greatly enriched her small convent. Her service among the poor, and there were so many poor, had convinced Eibhlin that if there were a hundred of her it wouldn't be enough. Between her religious devotions and her growing medical practice, she averaged but two to four hours' sleep a night. At home in her convent for a short rest, she still came quickly across a stormy winter sea when called by her younger sister, Skye.

"I'm surprised that he's still alive," she told Skye drily after she had made a careful examination of the old man.

"Can we do nothing?" Skye was troubled. She was still angry at Rory, but she loved him as she had loved her own father.

"You can make him comfortable," Eibhlin said, "and you can promise him not to take the children back to Innisfana."

"Did he tell you I was going to take them?" Skye fenced with her elder sister.

"Well, isn't that what you threatened?" Eibhlin's pretty face peered sharply at her younger sister from between the folds of her starched wimple.

"I cannot bear this castle without Niall. I have never liked it, but without Niall it is impossible!" Skye wailed.

"It is Padraic's inheritance, sister."

"You need not remind me of that, sister, " Skye retorted sharply. "He will have it! Did I not protect Lynmouth for Robin? Can I do any less for Niall's son?"

"Have you cried yet, Skye?" Eibhlin looked closely at her sister.

Skye's face was a closed and tight mask. "I have cried," she said, "for all the good it did me, which was none. I should be used to it by now, Eibhlin. How many husbands have I buried? Four! No, I take that back. I have only buried three. Niall's body was not found. It is lost at sea, the very sea that has enriched the O'Malleys so." A harsh laugh escaped her. "Our fierce old sea god, Mannanan MacLir, has taken his price from me, but 'tis too dear a price, Eibhlin. 'Tis too dear!" Her voice was trembling.

"Skye!" Eibhlin put a loving arm about her sister, but she felt totally helpless. How could she possibly comfort her sibling for such a loss. Niall Burke had been Skye's first great love, and when they had finally wed everyone expected him to be her last love as well.

"She killed him without mercy, Eibhlin," Skye said. "Darragh O'Neil murdered my husband, and do you know why?"

"No, Skye," Eibhlin replied gently. "I know nothing but that Lord Burke is dead, and tragically at the hands of Sister Mary Penitent."

"Sister Mary Penitent!" Skye's voice shook with anger. "Darragh O'Neil! 'twas Darragh O'Neil who murdered my husband! Darragh O'Neil for all her religious calling! She lured him to her side by saying she was dying, and wanted to make her peace with him. Instead, she stabbed him to death—and condemned her own soul to eternal damnation. She has wantonly widowed me and cruelly orphaned my two children! I'd like to kill her with my own two hands, Eibhlin, but her convent protects her, says she is mad! I don't believe it! I don't believe it, but they will not let me in to speak with her. They say that the mention of my name sends her into fits. Fits indeed! The bitch knows full well what she has done! 'Tis naught but a ploy to escape me. God's bones! I'd like to set the English upon that convent!"

"Skye!" Eibhlin was shocked. The English in Ireland were at this very time as systematically attempting to wipe out all the religious houses as their late sovereign, Henry VIII, had destroyed those same establishments in his own England. It was not as easy in Ireland, however, as it had been in England. The Irish did not love their English rulers, and this attack on their Church gave them one thing to which they could all rally honestly, peasant and noble alike.

"Oh, I wouldn't, Eibhlin," Skye said contritely. "Uncle Seamus would have my head if I did, but I'd like to do it!"

"I will get Uncle Seamus to aid us," Eibhlin said. "As the Bishop of Connaught he must order an investigation into Lord Burke's death. I will ask him to send me to do the interrogation, Skye."

"Darragh's order is a cloistered one," Skye said. "He'll get nowhere with her Mother Superior. She was Aigneis O'Brien, and she's prouder than all the damned high O'Neils put together. She will say nothing other than Sister Mary Penitent is mad; Sister Mary Penitent is being restrained; that the nuns of St. Mary's will pray daily for Lord Burke's soul."

Eibhlin's pale-gray eyes darkened with anger, and the tone of her voice was more O'Malley warrior than humble nun. "With or without Uncle Seamus's aid I shall get into St. Mary's," she said, "and I will find the truth of it for you, Skye. I do not understand why after all these years Darragh sought to seek out and kill Lord Burke. He did her no harm. Their marriage victimized him as much as it did her, and he helped to restore her to her precious convent. I don't understand why she suddenly felt it necessary to kill him; but I shall find out, Skye. I shall find out! "

The two sisters embraced, and suddenly Skye began to weep, a harsh, bitter sound of such intense grief that Eibhlin, holding her and attempting to comfort her, felt her own cheeks wet with silent tears. How long they stood there swaying with their sorrow, clinging to each other, Eibhlin never knew, but suddenly Daisy, Skye's faithful English tiring woman, was running into the room and urgently begging them to follow her.

"'Tis the old man, m' lady! He's dying," Daisy said. "You must hurry, for he wants you!" She quickly turned from them, hastening out of the room.

Skye and Eibhlin swiftly composed themselves and followed Daisy, moving through the icy-cold castle corridors to the warm chamber in which Rory Burke, the MacWilliam, lay eking out his last few moments upon this earth. Already the castle priest knelt by his side administering the last rites to the old man lying in his bed hung with wine-colored velvet. Still the MacWilliam's rheumy eyes lit up at the sight of Skye, and feebly he motioned her to his side, while at the same time impatiently waving the nervous cleric aside.

"You'll not be going home to Innisfana now, Skye lass," he whispered at her with an attempt at humor.

"No, Rory ban, I'll not be going now," she answered him gently. Please don't die on me, old man, she silently thought. You're the last little bit I've left of my Niall. Oh, the boy's his son, but he's a babe, and we have no memories in common. Don't die, old man! Stay with me!

"The first time I saw you, do you remember the first time I saw you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "'twas the feast of Twelfth Night, and you'd called all your vassals together to celebrate. I was wed but a few months to Dom, and was already carrying his first child. Ah, Rory, when you first saw me you regretted the O'Neil match, you did!" She smiled at the memory of the proud young thing she'd been then.

"I did," he finally admitted to her, "but in the end, Skye lass, you became Niall's wife, and the mother of my only two heirs. Protect them, Skye! Don't let the English take Padraic's heritage! By tomorrow he'll be the MacWilliam, and you must hold his inheritance until he comes of age. Promise me, Skye lass!"

The years were sliding away and she was a young girl again, and her dying father was thrusting the entire responsibility of the O'Malleys of Innisfana upon her slender shoulders. All the ships, her five younger brothers, the goods and the warehouses, and the people—all her personal responsibility. She had it still.

Then, too, there was her second husband Khalid el Bey's vast fortune to administer, and the monies and estates of her third husband, Geoffrey Southwood, the late Earl of Lynmouth; as well as the care of her four other children besides Deirdre and Padraic Burke. Now, suddenly, Niall was torn from her, and his dying father was pressing more responsibility upon her. It was far too much for one woman alone, and yet she could not refuse him. How could she? Would there ever come a time when she might be just a woman? She was so tired of it all, yet she couldn't let him down.

"I'll do my best, Rory," she said wearily. "I'll do my best."

He smiled up at her, trusting and satisfied. Then, closing his eyes, he quietly died. Exhausted, she walked from the room as her sister and the priest, their beads magically in their hands, fell to their knees and began to say the rosary. Daisy walked a step behind her, only hurrying ahead of her mistress as they reached Skye's apartments so she might open the door.

"Get me some wine," Skye said as she sought the relative comfort of a large chair by the fireplace. Sitting down, she watched the low flames darting among the peatfire, and wondered what she would do. How long did she have before the English would come arrogantly to confiscate her infant son's holdings. The old MacWilliam's death would be the perfect excuse for them, for the wily old man had given them no cause while he lived to abuse him. Not that the English in Ireland needed excuses to ill treat the Irish. No one would come to her aid when it happened, and she couldn't blame them. More than likely, one or more of her Irish neighbors would try to steal some of the Burke lands, too. Her very gender gave them the excuse they needed. A woman and child were easy prey for the cowards they all were. "Well, they'll not have it!" she said aloud as Daisy put the goblet into her hand.

"What's that, m'lady? Who not have what?" Daisy was puzzled.

"The damned Dublin English, Daisy, and our Irish neighbors, that's who! They'll not have Burke Castle, or Burke lands! Those are my Padraic's and I intend that it remain so."

"But what can you do about it, my lady? If we were in England you might appeal to the Queen, but England is far, and London farther."

"I'm going to England, Daisy!"

"But you've been forbidden, m'lady! They'll clap you back in the Tower of London, they will! You can't go!" Daisy's eyes were round with her genuine concern. She had been with her mistress for seven years, and she loved her dearly. She also knew her well. When Skye made up her mind, little if anything could stop her.

"I've been banished from court, Daisy, but not necessarily from England," Skye said craftily. "I shall go to Lynmouth, and from there I shall appeal to the Queen's Secretary of State, Lord Burghley. If it is Elizabeth Tudor's intention to aid me, I shall be permitted to travel to London. If not, I shall still try to make my appeal from Devon. I cannot sit here, Daisy, and just wait for the English to come and take Padraic's inheritance. When Southwood died I protected his son, and I must protect Niall's son, too. He can have nothing of the O'Malleys, for though I bear the title and the responsibilities of the O'Malley, it all belongs to my brothers and their heirs. If I cannot save Burke Castle and its lands for its rightful heir, then my poor Padraic will be landless and nameless. The ghosts of a hundred generations of Burkes would haunt me into eternity if I let that happen, Daisy."

"When will you go?" Neither Daisy nor her mistress had heard the door open and close, but Eibhlin now stood within the room.

"Now," Skye said. "I cannot lose a minute, sister. The word will be in Dublin quickly enough that Rory Burke is dead. I cannot even stay long enough to bury him, but he most of all would understand my haste."

Eibhlin nodded. "Then I'll be on my way to St. Mary's Convent to learn what I can of Niall's death. Uncle Seamus would approve, I know. Who will you leave in charge here?"

"Connor FitzBurke," Skye replied.

"Niall's bastard brother? Is that wise, Skye?"

"Connor is the most loyal man I know, Eibhlin. He is a simple and good fellow without ambition. It would not occur to Connor to usurp Padraic's inheritance. He will protect the children and their inheritance with his own life. I can't take the children with me. I must travel too quickly."

Listening, Daisy winced, and then wondered why she even bothered. Her bottom had been beaten to leather by now in Mistress Skye's service. One more midnight ride wasn't going to kill her. She never doubted that she would travel with her mistress. After all, no one else could do her lady's hair for court the way she could, and Daisy did not doubt that they'd be back at court. Nor did anyone else know the correct jewelry that went with each magnificent gown. No, she would be riding out with her mistress before the dawn even considered breaking.

"Daisy?"

The tiring woman looked up smiling. "Within the hour, my lady?" she asked, fully knowing the answer.

Skye nodded smiling back. "Aye, Daisy. Just when I thought that our adventures were over, we're off again!"

Daisy couldn't resist a mischievous grin. "I can't say I mind, m'lady. It was getting a bit quiet for me around here."

"God ha' mercy!" Eibhlin cried. "She's surely become one of us!"

"And not a bad thing either," Skye replied as Daisy hurried off. "A tiring woman who can keep up with me on a horse is a valuable asset, sister." Then she sobered. "Will you see to the servants for me, Eibhlin? I will need time to gather my wits before I speak to Connor."

"I'll see to it," was the quick reply, and then Skye found herself alone once more.

She rose and walked over to the windows to look down across the darkened countryside. A waning moon cast its pale, weak light across the soft, shadowed hills. Somehow, she thought, it should have been a wild and stormy night that Rory Burke took his leave of this earth, not this calm and windless time. For all of Ireland's rich mystical heritage, there hadn't been a sign or sound of the ghostly death coach come to take Rory Burke's soul away. Neither had there been the faintest wail of a banshee. She pushed the casement open and heard the frantic scream of a rabbit as a hunting owl found his prey; and then all was silent again. Life went on, she noted. No matter the changes, life went on. Skye O'Malley sighed deeply. There was no more time for mourning.