All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  She kept that thought in her mind as she prepared the castle for Lord Burghley’s brief visit. With its young lord away at court, and herself on her estates in Ireland, Lynmouth had been like a sleeping prince. Its mistress back, however, the servants polished and scrubbed, dusted and swept every corner of the castle. Great porcelain bowls of spring flowers began to appear in the main hall, and in the bedrooms herb-scented sheets and comforters appeared on the beds. When William Cecil and Sir Richard de Grenville and their train arrived two afternoons later they rode slowly up the raked gravel drive, admiring the well-manicured green lawns and brightly colored gardens around the castle. The moat round Lynmouth had been filled in in Geoffrey’s father’s time.

  Skye greeted her guests in the Great Hall, noting as she came forward that all the men in the party were most admiring of her. She had chosen to wear a black velvet gown, its very low neckline exposing her creamy chest and the soft swelling of her small breasts. Her neck wisk, a standing, fan-shaped wire collar, was of silver lace, as were the ribbons on her leg-of-mutton sleeves and her underskirt. About her neck was a necklace of silver and Persian blue lapis. Her dark and luxuriant hair was tucked beneath a fetching little silver lace cap.

  Curtseying prettily, she said, “Welcome, my lords! Welcome to Lynmouth!”

  “Christ’s bones, Skye,” Sir Richard de Grenville said, “you don’t look any older than when we first met, and I hear you’ve finally given the old MacWilliam his long-awaited heir.” He kissed her loudly on both cheeks, and then sobered. “I was sorry to hear about Niall,” he finished awkwardly.

  “It was a bad end to a good man,” William Cecil observed. “Good day to you, madam. I am happy to see you once more in England.”

  “If I am in England then I cannot be fomenting rebellion in Ireland,” Skye chuckled devilishly.

  The Queen’s man gave a dry bark of a laugh. “As always, Lady Burke, we understand each other,” he said. “Now how may I be of service to you?”

  “May we speak in private, sir?”

  He nodded.

  “Dickon,” she said to de Grenville. “Will you lead your gentlemen into the hall and avail yourselves of the refreshments my servants have laid out? I know it has been a dusty ride for you all.” She turned again to William Cecil. “I have some rare Burgundy in my library, my lord.” He followed her from the Great Hall and down a corridor through great double oak doors into a fine book-lined room with a beautiful aureole window. The sun pouring through the window at that moment made the room warm and inviting. Skye gestured. “Will you be seated, my lord?”

  He sat himself in a large, comfortable chair and gratefully accepted the silver goblet of fragrant wine that she poured him.

  After pouring herself one, Skye raised her goblet. “The Queen,” she said.

  “The Queen!” he answered.

  They both drank, and then Skye leaned forward and said, “The old MacWilliam is dead, and my infant son is now the new Lord Burke.”

  “I had not received that information,” he answered, admiring the way in which she came right to the point. Most women shilly-shallied about things like this. What was the matter with his Irish spies?

  “There is nothing wrong with your intelligence from Ireland, m’lord,” Skye said, amused, reading his thoughts. “I had my father-in-law buried in secret, and my uncle now holds the castle and lands for me. Your Dublin English and my fine Irish neighbors believe that Rory Burke lies dying, and even now they wait to steal his lands. That is why it is not public knowledge at this moment, and that is why I have come to you. Without the Queen’s blessing and protection, little Padraic Burke will be not only landless, but nameless as well.

  “I must appeal to you, my lord. Allow me to return to court so that I may plead my case with Her Majesty. My O’Malley ships harry the Spanish for England, my fleets share their huge profits with the Crown. I ask nothing for myself, m’lord. I only ask for my son, the rightful heir to the Burke lands and titles.”

  William Cecil stared into his goblet. In the north the marcher lords, Lumley and Arundel, Northumberland and Westmoreland, were already causing difficulties because of Mary Stewart, the Queen of the damned Scots. He knew that because of their religion they were considering pressing her claim to the English throne. God only knew that the Queen had been more than lenient with the Roman Catholic lords. Elizabeth Tudor preferred her own brand of Catholicism to the Pope’s, but did not abuse her Catholic subjects provided they were loyal to England before Rome.

  Lord Burghley swished the wine about in his goblet, watching as the ruby liquid slid down the polished silver sides of the goblet. There was going to be trouble in England before summer’s end. If the Crown did not confirm little Padraic Burke’s place he knew that what Skye feared would happen. The Dublin English and her equally greedy Irish neighbors would swarm over Burke lands fighting for the least little scrap of it.

  The Irish, of course, would then fight the English. It didn’t matter who won; the Anglo-Irish lords would demand monies and men to fight the Burkes and the O’Malleys, and the Queen would have to send those monies and men. Ireland was a bottomless pit for armies and gold, William Cecil decided. The Crown needed no more enemies or trouble in Ireland at this time. Especially enemies who commanded a fleet of ships and were not reluctant to use them against England. Skye’s ships patrolled the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay for the Crown, taking Spanish treasure galleons whose cargoes enriched Elizabeth’s coffers. They needed O’Malley ships, which meant that they needed Skye’s friendship as well.

  “Hmm,” William Cecil said. He had no intention of giving Lady Burke what she wanted cheaply, and he had suddenly thought of a marvelous use for her. “Madam, I can see to it that your infant son’s rights are upheld by the Crown, but in return the Crown would exact a favor from you.”

  “I have no choice,” Skye answered him. “What is it you want of me?”

  “There is a small, independent duchy tucked just between Provence and the Languedoc in France. It is called Beaumont de Jaspre. The current duc has recently made overtures of friendship to the Queen. He has offered us trading agreements and hospitality for English trading vessels. We would like to accept his offer, for it will give us a safe port in the Mediterranean and a valuable listening post into France.

  “The duc seeks an English wife, for he has only one child; a boy who rumor says is feeble-minded. The Queen has not been able to think of whom we might send to Beaumont de Jaspre. An untried girl would be of little use to us. Her mind would be apt to be filled with thoughts of love and romance. You, madam, will have no such illusions; and will do your duty by England. If you will go as the duc’s bride, then I will personally see that your son’s rights are fully protected. The boy will grow up as Her Majesty’s personal ward.”

  “Are you mad?!” The look on Skye’s face was pure shock. “I cannot leave Ireland and England! My life is here. My lands, my wealth, my children! Besides I have sworn to never wed again, m’lord. I cannot lose to death another man whom I love. You cannot ask this of me!” But she knew that he could, and he did.

  “Madam, you have never even met the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. Therefore you cannot love him. If he departs this life it should be no matter to you. He is said to be in failing health for all his desire to father children. In all likelihood you will be widowed in a year or two; but in the meantime England will have a listening post in France’s bedchamber.”

  “You are heartless, sir!” Skye cried. “Ask anything else of me and I will gladly comply, but you cannot ask this!”

  “I can, madam, and I do! The only way I will support your son’s rights is if you will agree to go to Beaumont de Jaspre as the duc’s bride.” His dark brown eyes looked straight at her.

  “I shall appeal directly to the Queen!”

  “You are forbidden court. Appear without the Queen’s permission, and you’ll return to the Tower, where you can do your son no good. Besides, the Queen will accept my advice in this
matter. An infant heir is so vulnerable, madam, without strong protection. Who stronger than the Queen? A grateful Queen. Think, madam!”

  Skye knew that she was beaten. She could refuse William Cecil’s infamous proposal and return to Ireland, where she would be forced to fight off the Dublin English and her Irish neighbors for the next fifteen years, until her son was old enough to fight himself; or she could agree to become a stranger’s wife. The idea was totally alien to her, but she had no other choices. Still, she would not give in to the Crown without having certain conditions guaranteed her.

  “I want the same kind of marriage contract that I had with Southwood and Lord Burke,” she said firmly. “What belongs to me remains mine alone. I will not give over my wealth to anyone else. Women are hapless enough creatures as it is in this man’s world; but I will not be helpless as well, dependent on someone else for every pennypiece I spend. If the duc will not agree then nothing, Lord Burghley, not even your threats, can make me go.”

  He nodded. “It will not be easy, but if your dowry is sufficiently generous, madam, we should have no difficulties with the duc. It is a simple enough matter to convince him that your estates are entailed to your children. As for your children themselves, they will remain here.”

  She nodded in answer to him. It would break her heart to leave her children, especially her Burke babies, behind, but it would be safer for them. Padraic and Deirdre must remain on their lands as a symbol to their people. “My uncle, the Bishop of Connaught, must be allowed to govern Burke lands for my son,” she said.

  “Agreed,” William Cecil said. Old Seamus O’Malley might be a papist, but he was an honest one and a popular one. He would give the Crown no difficulties. If they put an Englishman or one of the Anglo-Irish in charge of the infant heir, the regent would eventually appropriate the child’s inheritance. Besides, the safety of the Burke children themselves would be guaranteed in their grand-uncle’s care.

  “My other children will remain where they are now,” Skye said.

  “Then you should have no difficulty, madam, in readying yourself fairly quickly. I shall return to the Queen tomorrow. You are to follow in seven days’ time. You will advise me of your arrival in London, and I will arrange for you to come to court once more. Where do you intend staying?”

  “I will stay at Greenwood,” Skye said. “Lynmouth House is too large to open for one person for such a short time.”

  He smiled his frosty smile at her, pleased as he always was by her sense of economy. Like his mistress, Lady Burke was generous but frugal. She understood that wealth was to be husbanded and increased, not squandered idly. He fully approved her insistence on keeping her wealth in her own hands. She was an excellent manager, far better than most men he knew. “Then madam,” he said, “our business is now concluded. I shall look forward to seeing you at court.”

  She showed him to the apartments where he would spend the night, and then quickly hurried to her own rooms. She could not believe what had just happened. She had vowed never to marry again, and now here she was about to be betrothed to a foreign duke and sent from England and Ireland. This man wanted children, and she was certainly a proven breeder. She shuddered. How could she allow a man she did not know to touch her? To make love to her? The mere thought of it was repellent to her nature. Lord Burghley had said that the duc was not in good health. Perhaps by the time she got there the duc’s health would have deteriorated to a point where he could not fulfill his marital duties. One could hope.

  Dame Cecily hurried through the door demanding, “Well? Will Cecil support you and arrange for you to go to court to see the Queen?”

  “Aye,” Skye replied, “but the price is steep. I am to leave here, and journey to a small independent dukedom between Provence and the Languedoc where I will wed with its ruler.”

  “What?!” The older woman’s face looked horrified and her hand flew to her heart. “Surely Lord Burghley jests with you, Skye? He cannot ask such a cruel thing of you!”

  “But he has, and I must comply with his request, as he knew I must when he suggested it. The duchy has offered England a base on the Mediterranean as well as a listening post into France and, I suspect, the kingdoms of Italy, although Lord Burghley did not say so. The duc is supposed to be in failing health, and Cecil says I shall probably be home in two years or less.”

  “And afterward will they use the Burke children again in order to gain your aid?” Dame Cecily demanded, outraged. “God’s foot! Has Cecil then turned pimp for the Crown?”

  “I don’t know,” Skye said wearily. “I can only hope that Lord Burghley will accept this sacrifice I make as payment in full.”

  “I ought to give William Cecil a good piece of my mind!” Dame Cecily huffed furiously. “I cannot imagine what he is thinking of to separate you from your children!”

  Skye had to laugh. Dearest, dearest Dame Cecily. From the moment Skye had arrived in England several years ago, Robert Small’s plump, widowed sister had taken her under her wing; had been a second mother to her; had loved her, and Willow, and all of Skye’s children. She was a grandmother to Willow and Robin, but most of all she was a good and loyal friend. “Do not trouble yourself with Lord Burghley,” Skye gently admonished the older woman. “It will change nothing. I will not, however, leave England until I have seen Robbie.”

  “And your Burke children, Skye?”

  “If I go back to Ireland now to bid them a farewell I shall not be able to leave them, and I cannot take them with me. It is a long and dangerous trip I make. I do not know anything about this man whom I must marry. Besides, Deirdre and Padraic are both babies. They will not miss me as long as Uncle Seamus sees that they are loved and well cared for. And perhaps if this marriage works out I shall be able to send for them. I must ask you to care for Willow. The O’Flaherty boys are both safe where they are now.” A small sob escaped her as she thought of Niall’s children, so young and so helpless. How long would it be before she saw them again? Padraic would not even know her. He was just over two months old now. Deirdre, however, was almost sixteen months old. Would she remember her mother? Skye doubted it, and the tears flowed.

  Lord Burghley and his party departed Lynmouth the following morning, and for the next few days Skye went about the business of writing her uncle, her stepmother, and the others necessary to the smooth running of her world, of her plans to travel to Beaumont de Jaspre. These letters went off to their destinations by the fastest of the Lynmouth horses, for Skye wanted to hear from her family prior to her departure. She had decided to travel upon an O’Malley ship, and asked that her flagship, The Seagull, be awaiting her by month’s end in the London Pool. She would insist that she be given a proper naval escort to avoid the danger of pirates, and so she might reach her destination safely. Remembering the evil Capitan Jamil in Algiers, she worried about reaching Beaumont de Jaspre at all; yet she felt she should reach the duchy easier by sea than by having to travel through France during troubled times, and indeed France was in turmoil at the moment.

  Just prior to her departure for London Skye received a long letter from her sister, Eibhlin, who wrote of her visit to St. Mary’s and of what she had learned regarding the tragic death of Niall Burke. Darragh is truly mad, Eibhlin wrote. As for the evil Claire, she has disappeared as mysteriously as she appeared.

  Skye crushed between her two hands the parchment upon which her sister’s letter was written. Claire O’Flaherty! “Damn your black soul to Hell!” she whispered fiercely. “I swear by St. Patrick himself that if our paths ever cross, I will kill you with my own hands!” Having said the terrible words, she felt better.

  Skye had decided to take Willow to London with her in order to have more time with her eldest daughter, and so Willow might see her beloved half-brother, Robin. She had carefully explained her difficult situation to her daughter, and Willow had understood. She was very much her mother’s daughter with regard to finances, and knew that without property and gold a person was helpless; even with
them, as her mother was, one was helpless to supreme authority.

  “Can I not come with you, Mama?” was her only question.

  “Not until I know if this marriage is to work out, my love,” Skye said. “I do not even know the duc by reputation, Willow. He may turn out to be a fine gentleman whom I may learn to care for, and who will be good to my children; but he also might turn out to be not quite as nice, in which case I would prefer that my children are safe in England and Ireland. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” Willow said quietly. “If he is not a nice man, and I were with you, he might use threats against me to make you do things you would not do otherwise, like Lord Burghley.”

  “God bless me!” Dame Cecily cried. “She is but nine, and already understands the way of the world!”

  “Better she does,” Skye said, “and then she will not be disillusioned. You are correct, my love.”

  “Then it is better I remain here with Dame Cecily,” Willow said calmly.

  “Much better,” her mother agreed. “At least for the present.”

  Chapter 2

  EXACTLY one week after William Cecil had departed Lynmouth Castle for London, the Countess of Lynmouth followed after him. The great traveling coach with the Southwood family crest emblazoned upon its sides lumbered along the muddy spring roads toward the capital. Inside, however, Skye, Dame Cecily, Willow, and Daisy were quite comfortable. The vehicle itself was well sprung; the red velvet upholstery hid suitably full horsehair and wool padding, which made for comfortable seats; and tucked at their feet were hot bricks wrapped in flannel, which, along with the coach’s red fox lap robes, made for luxurious warmth. Skye absently rubbed the soft fur, remembering other and happier times when it had covered her and Geoffrey.

  The coachman and his assistant sat upon the box, controlling the four strong horses that pulled the vehicle. Six armed outriders preceded the coach, and six rode behind them. The horses were changed regularly, allowing them to keep up a fairly even rate of speed, and a rider had gone on ahead of them to arrange for overnight and midday accommodations in the best inns.