All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  About them everyone laughed at Skye’s words, for although she did not know it, she had come very close to the truth. Athenais de Montoire, at forty, was finding it harder to get lovers, and it was said by the court gossips that she paid young men to service her desires.

  The duchesse gritted her teeth angrily. “What I meant,” she said cruelly, “but then perhaps, madame, you did not know it, was that my betrothal to your husband was broken off twenty years ago because of his inability to sire a child.”

  A soft hiss of shock escaped the assembled guests, and now the entire hall was listening avidly. “I do not understand, Madame la Duchesse,” Skye replied, smoothing her hand across her distended belly, which was covered in claret-colored velvet, “how such a thing can be. On my husband’s holding in England are several mothers who would, like me, disagree with such a statement. One might accuse a peasant of a less than accurate memory, but one could not accuse me of such a thing.”

  There was a dangerous silence while Skye’s Kerry-blue eyes looked defiantly into the green ones of Athenais de Montoire. Then the duchesse said sullenly, “I only know what I was told back then, madame.”

  “Bah!” the Comtesse de Cher snapped, coming to her son’s defense. “You rejected my son, for which I now thank God, because you were eager to marry the old Duc de Beuvron, Athenais! The entire district knows the story of how your late papa bartered your virginity in order to make you a duchesse! Do not put the onus on my son. You are just feeling spiteful because when you recently tried to regain his affections he spurned you, being in love with ma belle Skye! The entire court knows how you begged Queen Catherine to intercede for you; that Adam wouldn’t even speak to you except Her Majesty requested it.”

  Athenais de Montoire gasped, and then grew pink with her outrage. “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you insult me so! I shall complain to the Queen, Madame la Comtesse! She will see I am compensated for these insults! I will stay no longer at this stupid country gathering. My son and I but came to lend lustre to what would otherwise be a dull fête. Come, Renaud!” and with a swish of her gold-embroidered white velvet gown she stormed from the hall.

  “Good riddance!” Gaby snapped, and then she signaled to the musicians in the gallery above. At once they began to play a sprightly tune and, unable to resist, the guests began to form the figures for the dance.

  “I could kill that bitch!” Skye muttered.

  Her mother-in-law replied, “You would have to stand in line, chérie, for Madame la Duchesse is a daughter of the Devil himself, and has made many enemies. You must not worry, however, for she cannot hurt you.”

  Skye’s tart remarks to the duchesse earned her the instant respect and approval of the noblewomen of the district. For too long they had suffered under Athenais’s superiority. The evening was declared a success by all.

  The winter set in, and Skye grew larger with the child during Lent with its forty days of fasting. Because she was enceinte and also thirty-two, the château’s priest absolved her from the strictest fast, allowing her meat on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. On the other days she was expected to keep the fast with the others. She felt guilty about having the chef broil her meat while about her everyone was forced to eat fish. The de Savilles, however, were more fortunate than many, for they could catch fresh fish in the Cher rather than being limited to a diet of salted cod and herring.

  To Skye’s secret relief, Adam’s devotion never wavered, even now as her time drew near. None of her other husbands had been so enchanted by her fertility as he was. It seemed to give him great pleasure to lie in their bed with her propped against his broad chest, her chamber robe open, while he stroked her swollen belly, and caressed and marveled over her suddenly heavy breasts. “God’s bones,” he muttered to her one morning, “how I long to see the baby suckling at your wonderful breasts!”

  “I had thought to put the child out with a wet nurse,” she replied casually.

  “Perhaps later,” he said. “But for a time I want you to nurse our child.” Gently he lifted one of her breasts. “From the looks of it, sweetheart, you’ll have plenty of milk for the baby. Why put the child with a peasant who must feed both her own and our baby when you are capable of nursing yourself.

  “I am of a mind to stay in France for a while longer. We are happy here, and so are the children.” His long face, however, belied the reasonableness of his words. What he had to tell her was something he’d been avoiding for several days in hopes of finding a good time. There was, it seemed, no good time.

  “You have heard from Robbie?” She was instantly wary.

  He nodded, knowing better than to conceal it from her. “Yes, I have heard from Robbie. The Queen, may God damn her sour and dried-up maiden soul, will not recognize our marriage. She says we have forfeited her goodwill by our deceit. What deceit, I should like to know? The witch is simply jealous of our happiness! She has never been woman enough to give up all for love, but she resents those who are brave enough to do what she secretly longs to.”

  “The Queen can go to Hell,” Skye muttered irritably.

  Adam laughed, but then grew serious again. “There is more, my love.”

  Skye smiled grimly. “I would expect that Elizabeth Tudor would not content herself with mere words. Tell me all, Adam, for it will get no better with the waiting.”

  “She’s taken the Burke lands, Skye.”

  “The bitch! She swore to me Padraic’s claim was safe if I wed with the Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre. I kept my part of the bargain, Adam. Damn these Tudors for the treacherous dogs they are! Damn her! Damn her! Damn her!” Then suddenly Skye remembered, and she asked of her husband, “Uncle Seamus? What has happened to my uncle?”

  Here Adam chuckled. “He did not give in easily, Skye. First he tried diplomacy, reminding the Queen of her promise to you, and that you had indeed kept your bargain. When that did not work that wily old cleric secretly filled Burke Castle with gunpowder, and then blew it to smithereens the night before the new English owner was to take possession. Every tenant farmer on the property had been given notice of eviction by the new owner, and so, as Burke Castle went so did all the cottages and farmhouses on the estate. All that’s left of the holding is the land itself and a number of piles of stones, the castle being the largest pile.”

  “But the people,” Skye fretted. “What is to become of the Burke people?”

  “They’ve left the land, Skye. Some have gone to the O’Malleys, and others to Ballyhennessey, which so far has escaped the Queen’s eye.”

  “Ballyhennessey is too small,” Skye said. “It can barely support its own peasants let alone refugees from Burke lands. Where has my uncle gone?”

  “To the O’Malleys, of course, with a large price on his head for wantonly destroying Crown property.”

  “My brothers will protect him, Adam, but he is such an old man now to have to face such a commotion. He’s seventy-one, you know.”

  “Would you like me to bring him to France, Skye?”

  “He’d not come, Adam, for he has his duty to his people as bishop of Connaught, especially now.”

  He could see that her eyes were sad with his revelations, and it pained him to fret her further, but he had no choice. “The Queen has also taken Lundy, Skye.”

  “Oh, Adam!” She looked up at him, stricken. “I am so sorry, my darling! All this is because of me!”

  “Skye, I will not lie to you. I loved Lundy, and I even loved that damned tumbled-down tower which was all that was left of my castle. I will miss my rooms at the top of that tower, the rooms where we first met, first made love; but, little girl, if I had a thousand times the possessions I should gladly give them all up to have you for my wife. Besides, the Queen got nothing but the island. When I knew that I was going to come after you some instinct made me transfer all my wealth to my bankers in Paris. If we cannot persuade the Queen to relent then I shall obtain lands here in France, and we shall settle here.

  “The Queen took nothing
of Lynmouth, or Robert Small’s possessions, which will one day come to Willow. It is only your Burke children she has acted against, and I suspect, Skye, that given the situation in Ireland now, the English would have eventually stolen those lands. I am sorry, but there is no help for it.”

  “What of the O’Malleys, Adam? What of Innisfana, my brothers, Anne, Geoffrey’s two daughters?”

  “For the moment they seem to be safe. I hope you will not be angry with me, Skye, but I instructed Robbie to take over the six ships that belong to you personally, and to separate them from the O’Malley holdings. Your brothers have joined forces with your kinswoman, Grace O’Malley, and she is the Queen’s mortal enemy in Ireland. This way I have protected your own wealth.”

  Skye nodded her agreement. “My brothers are hotheaded fools,” she said sadly. “They will tear down everything I have built up for the O’Malleys, and leave our people in poverty, but I can do nothing to help them. They are men now, and they will not listen to me, Adam. They see only the glory of rebellion against the English, and they see not the misery their actions will bring.” A deep sigh of regret escaped her, and then she said, “Send for Geoffrey’s two daughters, Gwyneth and Joan, and beg my stepmother, Anne, to come with them.”

  “I don’t know if Anne O’Malley will leave her sons, Skye.”

  “Perhaps not, Adam, but I will ask her nonetheless. That much I can do in my father’s memory.”

  “In time, Skye, the Queen will relent of her decision, I am sure.”

  “No,” Skye said. “I am not so sure she will, Adam. Do you remember when Lady Catherine Grey married secretly with Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford? Like ours, it was a Catholic ceremony, but when the proof was needed the priest mysteriously could not be found. Both their sons were declared illegitimate by the Queen!”

  “Catherine Grey was a claimant to the Tudor throne, Skye. The Queen was but protecting herself.”

  “No, Adam. Elizabeth Tudor likes to totally control the lives of her court. She is not capable of loving, or giving love. Once she told me, though she said she would deny it if I quoted her, that she would never wed, for if she did she would be neither a queen nor a woman in her own right, but rather a man’s possession, and she feared it. She does fear it, Adam, but yet at the same time she longs for it. She tries to surround herself with women she deems like her, women of wit and beauty and intelligence. When these women fail her by falling in love she is merciless in her disapproval and her revenge. They have, she honestly believes, given in to their baser natures; but Elizabeth Tudor will never give in to her feelings. She will live and die a virgin queen.”

  “What will happen to England then?” he mused.

  “Mary Stewart has a son,” Skye said, “and it is this little boy, James, who, I believe, will one day rule England.”

  Adam listened to his wife, but in his heart he still hoped that one day Elizabeth Tudor would forgive them, so they might return to England. He liked France, but he was an Englishman in his heart. Eventually, although he did not tell Skye, he intended to win the Queen over.

  Geoffrey Southwood’s twin daughters, Gwyneth and Joan, arrived from Ireland in mid-April. They had stopped in Cornwall on their way to attend the wedding of their elder sister, Susan, to young Lord Trevenyan. Susan, at fifteen, had sent her stepmother a properly correct letter offering to accept responsibility for her two sisters now that she was to be a married woman. Gwyn and Joan, however, had fled happily from their strictly Protestant sister’s household at the suggestion that they might marry her two young brothers-in-law.

  “You should have seen them, belle-mère,” Joan giggled. “Two pimple-faced boys with damp hands that were always seeking to get beneath our skirts when no one was looking; but oh, how pious they became when it was necessary.”

  Gwyn laughed with her sister. “Indeed, belle-mère, though Susan was shocked that we chose to honor our betrothals to your sons, we love Ewan and Murrough. When may we wed?”

  “You are but fourteen,” Skye said. “When you are sixteen we shall speak on it. This summer you shall stay with us here at Archambault, and then in the autumn perhaps I shall obtain places among the young French Queen’s maids of honor for both of you and Willow. Do you think you would enjoy a few months at court?”

  The answer was obvious, and shone in the delight upon the young girls’ faces.

  “I am sorry that Anne would not come with you,” Skye remarked.

  “She will not leave her boys, belle-mère,” Joan said, “though they will surely be the ruin of the O’Malleys.”

  “That is why I sent for you,” Skye replied. “I did not want you caught up in such an affair.”

  Joan and Gwyneth settled comfortably into the routine of the family, joining their stepsister, Willow, and her French compatriots in their studies and their games. On the twenty-ninth of April Skye went into labor with her child.

  “A bit early,” Gaby observed, “but I can see the child is large, and certainly ready to be born. Nature seldom makes a mistake in these matters.”

  “No, it does not,” said Eibhlin O’Malley, the nursing nun who had accompanied her nieces from Ireland in order to be with her favorite sister in her travail.

  The salon in the de Marisco apartments had been turned into a birthing room, and all the ladies of the household were available to help, though Eibhlin thought it unnecessary. This would be Skye’s eighth child. It was not, however, to be an easy birth. The labor began, and then it stopped, began again, and stopped once more. Skye paced the room, feeling the nervous perspiration sliding down her back beneath her robe.

  “Perhaps it is not a true labor,” she said to Eibhlin. “This has not been like my other confinements.”

  “In what way, sister?” Eibhlin kept her voice level. She did not want Skye to know that she was nervous.

  “I was very sick in the beginning this time, and the child has not been as wildly active as my others.”

  Eibhlin heaved a mental sigh of relief. “Each time is different to some degree, Skye. I just worry because this little one is so slow in coming. You have always borne your babes quickly.”

  Skye awoke on the morning of April 30th in severe labor. Before she might rise from her bed her waters broke, flooding everything. She was furious, and muttered, “Already this royal bastard causes me trouble. I wish to God it would never be born!”

  “For shame, sister!” Eibhlin scolded. “The babe is innocent of its father’s crime. Be grateful that your husband loves you so very much that he is willing to raise this child as his own.”

  Skye looked at her sister, her beautiful blue eyes ripe with raw pain. “I don’t want him to raise this child, Eibhlin,” she whispered. “I hate this babe that was forced upon me! The young King of Navarre used me like a whore, and I can never forget that as long as I must be a loving mother to his bastard! It is not fair, Eibhlin! It simply is not fair! Adam, who is the best man in this whole world, cannot sire a child due to a youthful fever, yet he is meant to be a father. It is his child I want! Not the bastard of France’s future king!”

  Eibhlin, who had always understood this beautiful and brilliant younger sister of hers, put an arm about Skye. “You can’t change what has already been, sister,” she said sadly. “You must face the truth of this matter. Henri of Navarre’s child is soon to be born to you. Your husband, whom you profess to love above all, wants this child for his own. You do not have a choice in this, Skye. For Adam’s sake, you must accept this little one with as good a grace as you can muster. It is the only thing he has ever asked of you, Skye, and Adam de Marisco has given you so much in return. For love of you he has lost Lundy. He has for love of you lost his country. Of all the men who have loved you, Skye, he has given you the most, for he has without shame or reserve given you his total heart. All he asks in return is this child which will put an end to any of the evil rumors that have been spread by the Duchesse de Beuvron. This babe will restore to him his own sense of manhood. You owe him that, sis
ter.”

  Skye burst into tears at her sister’s words, and sobbing, she flung herself against the nun’s chest. “I know that all you say is true, Eibhlin, but I cannot in my heart resign myself to it. I know that I am being selfish, but I cannot! I cannot!”

  “You will,” Eibhlin said positively. “I have faith in your nature, Skye, which has always been a good and generous one.” With a loving hand Eibhlin stroked her sister’s head.

  Skye sobbed her misery out against her sister’s spare bosom for several long minutes. She wanted to be the woman that Eibhlin claimed she really was, and she wanted to make Adam happy, but every time she remembered its conception she rebelled with anger. She remembered Navarre’s golden amber eyes filling with lust as he examined her bound and helpless body. She remembered the feel of his lips and his tongue upon her, and most of all she remembered that he had been totally aware that although she resisted him in her heart and mind, her body could not deny him. She remembered he had smugly voiced his knowledge, and had laughed at the futility of her rejection of him. All the love that Adam had to offer could not wipe out the terrible shame she felt, and having to face the result of Navarre’s rape for the rest of her days was not going to help.

  Then suddenly she was being pulled from her sister’s embrace and enfolded in her husband’s bearlike embrace. “Don’t weep, little girl, please don’t weep!” Adam begged her, his normally strong voice sounding somewhat distraught.

  Tears of frustration poured down her face, scalding her, but looking up at this marvelous man whom she loved so dearly, Skye said in what she hoped passed for a reasonably normal voice, “Dammit, Adam, having a baby hurts, and all women cry! Would you want me to act any differently for our child than I did for the others?”