Nell by Jeanette Baker Page A

sleep for hours. There was no need to hurry.
    ***
    A rider with only five gallowglass pushed his mount through the February snow, toward the men camped in the clearing outside Donore Castle. The man’s short cape, velvet doublet, and low flat hat proclaimed him an Englishman.
    Donal O’Flaherty sat on his haunches before a smoldering fire. Only the tightening of his jaw and the casual movement of his hand toward the dirk at his waist gave away his prejudice. He rose as Leonard Gray approached. The man was out of breath, and his face was very red. Silently, Donal waited, offering no welcome, until the king’s deputy dismounted.
    â€œMy God, O’Flaherty, ’tis sad news I bring.”
    â€œSpeak, Lord Gray.”
    Sweat ran down his florid cheeks. “Three weeks past, the Geraldines came under the executioner’s knife by order of the king.”
    Donal nodded. “It was expected. We heard the news of their sentencing nearly a month ago.” He left unsaid the words that burned in his brain. But for your interference, they might still be alive.
    Leonard Gray shook his head. “’Tis not for old news that I risked this journey. Henry demands the boy. Gerald is heir to castles and land. The king will not rest unless he is dead. ’Tis an old Tudor story, to murder the rightful heir and steal what is his.”
    â€œYour sentiment does not sit well on the lips of the king’s deputy,” Donal said contemptuously. “Why are you here, my lord?”
    Gray whitened. “I swear by all that is holy that I believed the king when he offered clemency. I am not the enemy, O’Flaherty. Gerald is my kinsman. Do you think I relish thoughts of dead schoolboys? I came only to warn them.”
    â€œThere is pox at Donore,” said Donal. “The boy may not live.”
    â€œIf he does, will you take him?”
    Donal met Leonard Gray’s pale gaze steadily. “No,” he said at last, offering nothing more.
    Gray backed away. “Keep him far from the Pale, O’Flaherty. Trust no one, especially the countess of Ormond. The king’s eyes are everywhere.”
    Donal waited until Gray and his entourage were no more than dark specks against the snow. Ormond’s countess was Margaret Fitzgerald, Nell’s sister and a most powerful adversary. He needed answers, quickly. Swinging himself up on his horse, he ordered his men to their saddles before heading for the gates of Donore.
    Nell stared out the small slitted window of her chamber at the men camped in the snow. It was something she did every day, as much to alleviate her boredom as to reassure herself that they were still there. Donore was the most spartan of her father’s estates, and she’d brought nothing with her but a change of clothing, her brushes, and a small jeweled dirk that she kept tucked inside her girdle.
    Today there had been more activity than usual in the O’Flaherty camp. Several riders had approached, stayed only a moment, and departed again. Now a single rider was making his way toward the gates. He was too far away for her to see his features, but Nell was sure he was Donal. Color rose in her cheeks. She was clean, her gown was fresh, and Gerald’s fever was gone.
    Pulling on her cloak, she moved swiftly down the stairs and across the courtyard to throw back the bolt on the heavy gates. Then she hurried into the small hall and lit the fire. By the time he arrived, the worst of the chill was gone. Candles flickered on the mantel, reflecting the jewel-bright colors of the stained-glass windows lining the room. On a small table, twin goblets bearing the crest of the Fitzgeralds were filled with mulled wine.
    Donal stepped into the room, stripped off his gloves, and rubbed his arms against the cold. He looked around appreciatively. Even a remote Fitzgerald outpost like Donore was appointed with more luxury than Aughnanure. Lured by the warmth, he walked to the hearth and