Free Nell by Jeanette Baker Page B

She stepped backward. “Come no closer, Donal. You dare not risk it.”
    â€œBy the sword of Conor, Nell. I’ve searched the length of Ireland for you. Do you think I would leave you? Open the gates. You’re coming with me to Aughnanure.”
    He still wanted her. It was more than she’d hoped for. But it couldn’t be. Not yet. Summoning the last of her reserves, she refused him. “You’ve not had the fever. Come back in a se’enight. If Gerald lives, we shall accept your escort to the earl of Desmond at Askeaton Castle. If he dies—” Her voice broke. “If he dies, I’ll come with you to Aughnanure.”
    Donal understood her worry, but he did not share it. He was pure Irish from a lineage that was already old three thousand years ago when his ancestors built the great wrath of Emain Macha near Armagh. He carried the title of chieftain, the most ancient, most prestigious title in all of Ireland. Donal O’Flaherty feared no one, most especially not this Welsh upstart on the English throne. As far as the O’Flahertys were concerned, there was only one law in all of Ireland, and that was Brehon law. “Come closer, Nell,” he said softly.
    She hesitated.
    â€œI only want to see your face. I won’t touch you.”
    Nell moved toward him and lifted her chin, swallowing bravely. She was dreadfully thin, and weeks had gone by since she’d bathed properly and washed her hair. It was not an auspicious way to meet one’s future husband after nearly a year.
    Donal stared down into the gaunt beauty of Nell’s tear-smudged face, and his heart broke. Forgetting his promise, he reached through the aperture and cupped her chin. “Don’t cry, a stor ,” he murmured softly. “I won’t leave you. We shall camp in the glen, and at the end of the week, you will leave this place and never come back.”
    His tenderness weakened her. She leaned against him briefly, caught up his hand and pressed her mouth to his palm. His skin tasted of salt and leather. Quickly, she thrust his arm away, afraid that the price for so much pleasure would be more than she could pay. “ Dia duit , Donal,” she said softly.
    â€œ Dia is Muire duit , Nell.”
    Unable to watch him ride away, she walked quickly across the courtyard and up the stone stairs into the chamber she shared with Gerald.
    The Tower of London
    Silken Thomas sat on the wooden bench and stared at the two initials he’d carved in the stone wall. The lettering was crude, almost infantile, but it couldn’t be helped. His chisel had been a spoon. Not that it mattered. No one would pass judgment. No one cared. All who mattered to him in the world were here with him, sentenced to die before him so that he might watch what he had caused. Damn Leonard Gray. He’d assured the Geraldines they would be released after Henry had secured promises of fealty. Now, Silken Thomas wondered if it had ever been true or if Gray had lied from the beginning.
    Alone in his tower room, Thomas had time for reflection. It was his own rash temper that had brought down his house, beginning with the scene in St. Mary’s Abbey before the King’s Council. Throwing down his sword and pledging himself enemy to the king had been the act of a hot-tempered child. There was no room for child’s play in the world of English politics. For his immaturity, he would pay with his life, and for their loyalty to him, his uncles would die with him, hanged, then drawn and quartered at Tyburn.
    He lowered his head into his hands and was surprised to feel the wet of tears against his face. Nell and his mother would blame him. He would have liked to see his mother again.
    Voices on the stairs disturbed his reverie. It was time. They had come for him, before he was ready. He almost smiled at the absurdity of his own mind. Was a man ever ready to die?
    In the courtyard, his eyes burned from the sun’s