The Butcher's Daughter, page 34
“Mary! Dear God, I thought I was mistaken, but it is you! Do you remember me, Mary? ‘Tis Thomas, Mary, Friar Thomas!”
The friar took my hands and held them affectionately for a moment as I struggled to remember his face. I remembered the name.
“Friar Thomas? Friar Thomas from Dublin?”
“Aye! Friar Thomas from Dublin. There’s but one of me in Ireland though I be the size of two! When first I saw you across the way I thought I had seen a ghost. Then I crossed the road to have a better look. God’s mercy, the resemblance is striking. Bless me, you are your mother’s daughter. If she were standing with us now you’d be a matching pair.”
I leaned close and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. He had been a good friend and priest to my father after my mother passed.
“Do you still have a weakness for strong ale?” I asked.
Friar Thomas rubbed his generous paunch and beamed. “Your memory is sound. I sometimes wonder in these troubling times, as I grow old and foolish, if God is truly Catholic. Perhaps He is a Lutheran as many claim or one of these new Puritans or something else altogether? God help us if He’s a Muslim or a Buddhist! But no matter what His church, surely He must enjoy good ale! Lead the way my sweetest, dearest Mary!”
“What brings you to Westport, Friar?” I asked as we walked along the road together.
“I have kin here. My brother is a cooper. He and his wife have three strapping sons and two healthy daughters and I’m very fond of all of them. I come to Westport to look in on them from time to time. And you, Mary, I thought you dead or worse after they found your poor father - God rest his soul - murdered in his shop with no sign of you. What happened, dear child? Where have you been all these years?”
“Ah, I wish I could tell you that my story will require a goodly amount of ale and time but, in truth, there is not much to say. I simply ran away.”
“And you live here in Westport?”
“No, no. I dabble in trade and shipping here and there, nothing very exciting I’m afraid. My life is rather boring. I’m only passing through Westport until I find new work.”
“Oh? An unusual occupation for a woman, trade and shipping. You’re not married?”
“Good heavens, no. I spend most of my days at sea. My shipmates are my family.”
The friar grabbed my arm and we stopped walking. “Ah! I must be daft! Ships and trade - smuggling by another name - and you frequent Westport, the O’Malley stronghold. Of course, now I see things plainly. You know the truth of it then, about your father?”
“Yes.”
“You know John Kelly was not your natural father?”
“Yes.”
“And after his death you made your way here to Westport. Kelly must have told you what to do, who to see, in the event he came to a bad end. You made a visit to see Lord Eoghan Dubhdara O’Malley, your natural father?”
“Aye.”
“O’Malley was the last of his kind, the last of the Kings of Umaill. You are of royal blood Mary.”
“Father, listen carefully to me now. ‘Tis best you never speak of these things again, not to anyone, for your sake as well as mine. I must keep to the shadows. I must walk lightly and leave no footprints behind. There are those who would see me dead. These men would have no qualms about killing a friar if his killing led to me.”
I could see in Friar Thomas’s eyes that he understood. He had never been anyone’s fool.
He bit his lip and nodded. “I will say only this and then no more about these matters. Your mother was very dear to me. You are very dear to me. I was with your mother when she gave birth to you. I am the priest who christened and baptized you. Dear me, I am the priest who christened and baptized your mother! And I was with her when she died, as was Lord O’Malley. I administered the last rites to your mother. You’ve heard of Grace O’Malley?”
“Aye.”
“Do you know Grace O’Malley is the daughter of Lord O’Malley?”
“I’ve heard this. But I know her not.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mary. The English will no doubt find this Pirate Queen, as she calls herself, and execute her on the gibbet someday. The English would need no excuse to execute her half-sister for good measure. Come, let us drink and speak of less troublesome matters. And should anyone ask me, I’ve never seen you before this day.”
After we found a quiet inn to our liking, Friar Thomas and I talked of many things. He told me things about my mother I did not know or had long ago forgotten. And I shared a few of my adventures in the New World, as a lowly ship’s cook, with him. I told him just enough to hold his interest, but nothing of great substance. I mentioned nothing about the Twins or of my arrangement with the queen. It was clear to see the friar’s sympathies would be with Catholic Spain if war broke out.
“A ship’s cook you say?” he asked after I had finished my story.
“Aye.”
Friar Thomas winked at me. “Ahem, I think not. But I respect your need for, um, anonymity.”
“Let us raise our glasses high,” I said, “and drink to anonymity!”
The good friar drained his ale with one, long gulp. “Ahhh,” he mumbled and placed his hand over mine. “Mary, you’ve been cautious with your words. Even so, one needn’t be wise to see that your heart is burdened down with hate. Let it go. Free yourself from pain, Mary. Our Lord teaches us through the Holy Gospels to love and to forgive one another with all our hearts. Saint Matthew gave us this simple but sage instruction: “For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. Do you know this proverb?”
“Of course.”
“Mary, I beseech you, embrace this simple Truth with all your heart. It is the Word of God. Only then can your restless, troubled soul find the peace you crave.”
The priest’s power of perception surprised me. I did not think I had said or revealed that much about myself.
“Peace? Ha! I have no care for peace, Father. Vengeance is my stock and trade. I crave retribution swift and sure against any who have or would do me harm, not peace. Let the Lord forgive the wicked if it pleases Him to do so. And you Father, save as many souls as you are able, to your heart’s content, but let me be the dark angel of death at your beck and call. Let me be the one who rips away their spirits from their flesh. I will protect my own. This is the way of it. Such is the world we live in.”
The friar shook his head in disagreement, but smiled tenderly at me too. “Mary, Mary, Mary, no good will come of it. But I judge you not. Even as a young child you were headstrong and obstinate. Have you at least considered finding a good husband and settling down? You must know of your own great beauty. You would attract many a fine suitor, men of substance who could give you a life of ease and privilege, if only you would allow it. And whether you will admit it or not, you have a kind and loving heart. I see this. I’m thinking about your worldly happiness now, not your immortal soul.”
My thoughts turned briefly to that wretched day in Dublin when I fled into the streets an orphan in torn and bloodstained clothing. I decided to spare the good friar from the atrocities of that unholy night. My rite of passage into womanhood, my ugly passage into the world of violence and bloody vengeance was my own and for no one else. Not even with Hunter had I shared these things.
I forced a weak smile to reassure the friar. “I am, I promise you, Father, most happy.”
“Ah, very well, I see your mind is firm. ‘Twas perhaps foolish of me to try. You’ll be in my prayers and thoughts tonight and forevermore my child.”
“I humbly thank you, Father. I will consider all you have said for I know that you are wise. But I make no promises. I’m curious, if you know, who were my mother’s people? What clan was she from? I don’t recall ever knowing.”
“Ryan. You are a Ryan on your mother’s side, Mary. And let me tell you, the Ryan’s are a feisty brood!”
“Oh.”
The friar chuckled. “Hmmm, Ryan and O’Malley blood mixed. Now there’s toxic brew! There’s a double dose of trouble...”
Not long after the friar and I said our farewells and parted ways, Hunter, Atwood and Efendi returned from the east with not much news. And then our men slowly trickled in. Two months after our arrival to Westport, we weighed anchor and left the rocky, sacred shores of Ireland behind us. We set out for the New World once again.
And so this is how we lived our lives over the next few years. We ravished Spanish and Portuguese ships here and there, never too many at one time, and on occasion we raided a village or two just to keep the Spanish guessing. We never took too much. We never tarried long on any island. We avoided killing and were always on the move - like the nomads of the desert. I was content to let Drake and others have all the fame and glory. We were just one of many nameless raiders preying on the Spanish in Caribbean waters. And whenever we had taken a worthy prize or two, we’d sail back to the Old World, to England first, to auction off our plunder, and then on to Ireland so men could see their loved ones. Of the Twins, we saw nothing and heard very little.
Life was good for one and all. Our profits were obscene.
Chapter Fifteen
Edged in fine gold, purple clouds sailed across a sky of soft turquoises and brilliant reds on a glorious morning of breathtaking beauty as the crew of a familiar English man-o’-war expertly eased their sturdy vessel into Guadeloupe’s tranquil bay. Moving leisurely under half sail, the ship’s helmsman pointed his battlecruiser’s nose straight at my three ships sitting quietly at anchor while topmen scrambled up the ratlines and moved out smartly along the spars to take in more canvas. The English seemed a disciplined crew like my own.
My men and I had put in at Chief Paka Wokili’s fair island a few days before to rest our weary bones, to repair our ships and to take on fresh provisions. My lookouts standing watch high up in the mountains had forewarned me of the approaching man-o’-war and I had rowed out earlier in the morning to the Phantom so that I could greet our English visitors in person. I watched the English ship coast into the bay from the quarter deck without concern. The duty crews on all my ships had their guns trained on the man-o’-war.
With her gunports closed and her guns secured, the English ship glided gracefully into the center of our small fleet surrounded by a flock of seagulls squawking and fighting over scraps of food. Her crew let go the anchor and brought their man-o’-war to rest within easy shouting distance of Phantom. I saw the mysterious Master Martin standing at the ship’s helm. He offered me a friendly smile and waved.
Martin picked me up in a small skiff and we rowed ashore together where my old friend, the King of Guadeloupe, his long hair now white as snow, stood stoically on the beach waiting for us, curious to know more about our visitors. After I explained to Paka Wokili that Martin was a good and faithful servant of the mighty Queen of England, Spain’s arch enemy, he commanded a great feast be held in Martin’s honor. For the chief, any excuse to hold a banquet would do.
In the evening we ate and drank to excess around our campfires set against the shore while our Carib hosts gladly sang the songs of their people and danced to entertain us. They danced with graceful movements to the lively beat of drums made from hollowed-out logs, to claves and dried calabashes filled with pebbles and sand. The merriment was grand. Even the unflappable Master Martin seemed to enjoy himself for once.
After we had filled our bellies and exchanged our stories, Martin leaned close to my ear as we sat together on a blanket spread out across the sand. “Her majesty is calling upon all her commanders who love her,” he whispered. “She is calling upon all those who love England, to rally around her banner. Our sovereign mistress is beset on all sides by enemies, enemies incited by papal intrigue, by foreign arrogance and greed.”
“And what does this have to do with me?” I whispered back, indifferently.
“Did she not entrust you with a royal commission?”
I looked at the Englishman perplexed. “She thinks of me as one of her commanders?” I cared not one whit about papal intrigue, or about foreign arrogance or greed. Nor did I love England. But I had a fondness in my heart for the queen - and the Spanish and I were hardly friends.
“Why Mary, are you not one of the dame protectors of the realm? Yes, you are indeed, most certainly, one of the queen’s trusted commanders. For prudence’s sake, I think it wise her majesty not shout your status from atop the battlements surrounding London for all the world to hear - not just yet. Wouldn’t you, a woman who cherishes anonymity, agree?”
“Aye, aye, I would indeed agree,” I answered. “The thrust of your point is not lost on me. I prefer keeping to the shadows these days. How did you know where to find me? We haven’t put in at Guadeloupe in ages.”
Martin cracked one of his rare, thin smiles. But even when he smiled his face never really changed. He always wore a mask. Even the lovely breasts of a striking Carib woman swaying back and forth directly in front of us to the music’s sensual beat seemed to have little effect on him.
“Ah, Madam, you have spies and I have spies. I dare say a few of your spies and few of my spies are one and the same spy.”
“Indeed? Duplicitous agents, how intriguing! So, I pray you tell me what vexes my dear sister, the mighty Queen of England? I cannot imagine her majesty distraught over papal intrigue or troubled much by foreign arrogance or greed. Not that woman of iron. In any case, these matters are hardly new.”
Martin raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon, Madam. Did you refer to the Queen of England as your sister?”
I smiled, pleased that I had bemused the mysterious Master Martin for once. “That is how the queen chose to describe me as I recall and who am I, a lowly shield maiden, a commoner and a thief, to disagree with Her Royal Majesty? By all means ask her if you like the next time you have her ear but, if you do, please assure the queen that I use the term sister most sparingly and only with a select few who understand discretion.”
“I should hope so Madam. In any case, England and Spain to all intents, constructions, and purposes are at war. England is sending ships, men and money to the United Provinces to break Spain’s siege of Antwerp. Spain will respond in kind of course to keep her hold over the Netherlands.”
“Ah, ha. War has finally come. So this is what brings you to the New World. You are the queen’s trusted advisor and from what I know you are quite capable. Return to her majesty and advise her to make peace at once. Spain is a rich and dangerous adversary. Her majesty risks all with war against that mighty colossus. I dare say the odds in such a contest do not favor our good and pious queen.”
“England is hardly feeble,” Martin replied in a haughty tone. “We have ships built for rugged war, fine ships, and fighting men unequalled in all the world. I dare say our women are not to be trifled with either. Her majesty is proof enough of that - as are you, Mary.”
I nodded my appreciation to Martin for his compliment. “I pray I’m worthy of such generous praise, good sir. Still, I’m a bit hazy on your purpose here?”
“Spain is building a great fleet of warships, the likes of which the world has never seen. King Phillip intends to invade England, depose our beloved Elizabeth and restore Catholicism to the islands to please that old lecher in Italy, that detestable prince of Rome. English armies and the Navy Royal have started making preparations to defend the kingdom of course. And the queen has authorized Captain Francis Drake, now Sir Francis Drake - you know of him - to assemble his own fleet, to include a squadron of private raiders for certain, irregular operations against the enemy.”
“A squadron of privateers? You mean with ships like Phantom?”
“Quite so, my lady. Phantom is a fine warship with a disciplined crew and she is ably commanded by officers of uncommon skill.”
“To what purpose? We’re no match against a fleet of Spanish heavy galleons.”
“How true, Mary, how true. But against smaller ships, at disrupting supplies and creating confusion and panic in the enemy’s own waters without getting caught, you excel. You and your men have become quite adept at hit and run tactics I hear. You have a gift Mary and England is blessed with others like you.”
“So you sailed over one thousand leagues to tell me to continue to do what we are already doing?”
“No, of course not. Drake has returned to the Caribbean in force with a fleet of warships and intends to cause some mischief. I sailed with him, though I have returned for other reasons. One of those reasons included finding you. You, your ships and men, will sail with me back to England.”
“But.”
“But your sister,” Martin interrupted, “the Queen of England, needs you now and I think it not to bold of me say that you owe her majesty your life.”
“I see. The danger then is quite real.”
“The danger is quite real, Mary. Permit me also to offer you this tidbit of news, news that might whet your appetite to see Merrie Olde England once more: the brothers you call the Twins have aligned themselves with Spain. England is not alone in using privateers. These men are traitors to the Crown and should your paths cross, well, war unburdens us from obedience to certain laws. You are free to kill the bastards if you see them and keep whatever spoils you take - without any recompense to the royal coffers.”
“I see. And when do we sail for England?”
“We sail on the morrow, after an early breakfast. Oh my, I nearly forgot. The queen was quite touched by the exquisite pearls you gave her awhile back. She wishes to take this opportunity now to properly thank you. One kind act deserves another she said to me.”
Martin reached into his vest pocket and removed a maroon, velvet pouch. He undid the lace, dropped the contents of the pouch into my hand and smiled, the broadest smile I’d ever seen him make.
“What is this?”
“The queen commanded me to deliver this to you in person as a modest token of her affection for you, Mary. Please, unwrap the paper and have a peek.”
