Free Nell by Jeanette Baker Page A

into her hands. It was a miracle that after so many sleepless nights, she wasn’t ill herself. After her mother’s death, Nell’s mind had gone numb as if it recognized that she could bear no more and still keep her fragile hold on sanity. It was enough that she grub for food, that she search the grounds for kindling, that she bathe the emaciated body of her brother, that she wake and sleep and wake again. There was only today, only this moment and the next and the next after that. She dare not think of tomorrow. For with thoughts of tomorrow would come other thoughts, dangerous thoughts.
    For weeks, she had struggled to keep her focus. But now, on the edge of sleep, her mind wandered. What would happen to them now, to the last of the mighty Fitzgeralds of Kildare, whose roots were embedded in the ashes of Troy, in Latium and Etruria, in the glory of ancient Florence, in Normandy with the Conqueror? From Wales, they had invaded Ireland, ruling within and beyond the Pale for four centuries, only to be snuffed out by a man, an English king, a cousin who feared his own mortality and searched beyond the borders of the Pale for an eleven-year-old boy and his sister.
    Nell had exhausted her options long ago. Her first inclination had been to seek refuge with the O’Flahertys at Aughnanure. The king would not risk his gold or his army to find her in the wilds of Galway. But there was Donal to consider. For the O’Flahertys, who had no stake in the future of the House of Kildare, it would mean war with England. She would not ask Donal to risk his birthright for her brother. Nor could she tell him where she was. The Fitzgerald standard had fallen. If her letter were to fall into the wrong hands, Henry would find it. She shivered. Her only hope lay with her cousin, the earl of Desmond, head of the Munster Geraldines.
    Unlike her own, this branch of Geraldines harbored a deep mistrust of the English. They had cut themselves off from England completely, becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves, taking on their customs, their clothing, their language, refusing to attend court or the council in Dublin. Every native chief owed them fealty. For that reason, she must take Gerald to Desmond at Askeaton Castle.
    She must have slept. When she opened her eyes, the light from the narrow recessed window had completely disappeared, and the chamber was shrouded in darkness. Shivering, she left the room and returned with a torch, touching it to the mound of stacked kindling in the hearth. She pulled her cape around her shoulders and waited for the chill to leave her bones. Gerald stirred. Outside, there was a sound on the cobbles. Nell froze. Horses with riders waited at the gates.
    Fear spurred her forward. Securing the door against the chill, she left Gerald asleep in the warmth of the heated room and moved swiftly down the spiral stairs into the courtyard and the ground level of the barbican. Keeping out of sight, she peeked through the portcullis, and her eyes widened. There were twenty men, all with the stirrupless saddles, long mantles, and fringed collars of the native Irish.
    With a fluid, effortless motion, a single rider separated himself from his horse and walked toward the portcullis gate. Nell’s throat closed with relief. She knew of only one man who walked with that light, athletic gait. Even now, she could see the fall of his hair, black as a crow’s wing beneath the moonlight. Donal. Thanks be to God! Her prayers had been answered. It was Donal O’Flaherty.
    She whispered his name into the hushed darkness. “Donal.”
    He stopped and turned toward the sound of her voice. “Nell?” he said incredulously. “Nell, is that you?”
    â€œI’m here, Donal, in the barbican.”
    He moved toward the loop. “Let me in.”
    â€œI cannot. ’Tis the pox.”
    He stretched his arm through the aperture. “Are you affected?”
    â€œNot I. ’Tis Gerald.”