kennel keeper without his help, yet he had no intention of retiring. Neither did Pyers Fitzgerald, as far as Frankie knew, intend to pension his father off. It was a problem without a solution. Frankie chafed at the delay of his own plans. With every passing day, he ached to leave Kilvara and begin his life. Instinctively, he began withdrawing from everyone he cared about.
The Maguires had never been a communicative family. Peter was up before dawn, bicycling the five miles to and from Kildare, working long hours and nodding off shortly after tea. He had little time for his children. Kathleen had moved out of the Maguiresâ tiny cottage in the village to a room in Kildare Hallâs servantsâ quarters. Occasionally, Frankie met his sister for an afternoon meal. But Kathleen, infatuated with Terrence Fitzgerald, knew that Frankie disapproved and was only too happy when he made his excuses.
It was Jilly whose life had changed. To Frankieâs credit, he understood that she was the one who would suffer the most by his absence and deliberately began the separation process that could have only one conclusion.
That he would suffer as well did not yet occur to him. That would come later, when his world was measured by four bare walls and a barbed-wire fence, when the scent of feminine perfume drove him over the edge, when the memory of sun-streaked hair and freckled cheeks woke him in the night, his sheets drenched with sweat, shaking and terrified that he would never see the face behind them again.
But Frankie was not born fey, nor did he believe in the sight. So he went on his way, ruthlessly exorcising from his life everyone he loved, everyone he felt was even slightly dependent upon him. His father and Kathleen were surprisingly easy. It was Jilly who held his heart, Jilly whoâd defended him, Jilly who believed they would spend their lives together, Jilly who trusted him with the secrets of her soul, Jilly whose shining, ocean-colored eyes shifted between need and devotion. How could he ever say good-bye to Jilly?
Seven
Ireland, 1537
Through a causeway bordered by boglands and forests of primeval black oak, their branches laden with fresh snow, Donal OâFlaherty led Nell, his men, and the cart upon which Gerald Fitzgerald slept away his fever. Donal had seen immediately that the boy, frail and mottled with illness, could never sit astride a horse. He ordered a covered wicker basket to be filled with hay and blankets. There Gerald slept the untroubled sleep of a child while those entrusted with his life cursed at every snapping twig, every crack of thin ice, every twisted rut that threw the unwieldy cart off balance.
The journey seemed endless. Donal, whoâd crossed the entirety of Ireland in four days, chafed at the delay. The countess of Ormond had eyes in the back of her head, and if she were truly Geraldâs enemy, she would know of their halting progress. In a fair fight, Donal knew his men to be superior to Irish forces, but he had only a small company, and the countess of Ormond had the might of England behind her.
He frowned, turned back to look at Nell, and felt his heart contract. She had done nothing more than lift her arm to brush a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. Everything she did, the slightest movement, the way she arranged her cloak, the tilt of her head, the low, soft laughter that bubbled freely within her, filled him with wonder. Where had a woman raised amidst the splendor of Maynooth learned to accept such hardship uncomplainingly?
It was for her that he relinquished his comfort. In winter, Aughnanure was sinful in its welcome and accommodation. Fires, taller than a man, roared in every room, and wine and ale flowed. Visitors spent the season sated with drink, curled up in warm furs, their daze interrupted by an occasional hunt or wager of the dice. Were it not for Nell, Donal would be home, his head filled with nothing more than the tales of his bard
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