The Irish Princess Read Free

first, I thought I saw only a pile of pillows, but the king was propped upon them. After all his harsh breathing, he was so quiet now. Was he awake, watching, or had he just died?
    I cleared my throat to see if he would move. Finally—now or never, I told myself. Let him die in peace, some would say, but I would never have peace that way. In my mind, I heard the shouted, futile but bold words of my family’s battle cry: A Geraldine! A Geraldine!
    I knelt upon the mattress, dragging my skirts and the shawl. I crawled closer, my fingers gripping the handle so hard that my entire frame shook as I began to lift it.
    I held my breath and positioned myself better to strike. I would awaken him now, to pass judgment on his brutal life.
    Then a wheezing voice came from the depths of the black bed and the huge, fleshy frame: “You’ve come to bed at last, my dearest love, my angel.”

 
    PART I
     
    My Youth
     
    Love that doth reign and live within my thought
And built his seat within my captive breast,
Clad in arms wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest . . .
And coward Love, then, to the heart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and ’plain,
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pain,
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove,—
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.
     

—HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY

 
    CHAPTER THE SECOND
     

MAYNOOTH CASTLE, COUNTY KILDARE, IRELAND
     
    June 4, 1533
     
    I , Elizabeth Fitzgerald, called Gera by my family, descended from the famous and infamous Geraldines of Italy and Normandy, enjoyed early years of a protected, even pampered childhood before catastrophe came calling. The first day I can recount when my sweet security began to fall apart, I was barefooted and boating with my siblings on the River Lyreen in a craft of lath and tarred canvas called a naomhóg , as ever under the watchful eyes of our guardians Magheen and Collum McArdle. I loved to sail, even at that age, and rowing to me was so slow.
    Born in January 1523, I was but ten years of age that day, the middle child of our brood of five, though I was ever being told—and scolded—that I was the most willful and talkative of us children. Mayhap that was to make up for my dear sister Margaret, age twelve, the eldest of us all, for she was deaf and dumb. Next came Gerald, age eleven, who would have been the heir to Father’s earldom but for our older half brother, Thomas. Then came Cecily, age nine, and Edward, almost eight.
    Oh, yes, my parents loved each other dearly in every way, to have a child nearly each year, but that was oft the way of Irish families. Why, even the poor folk, who could hardly feed their brood, had large ones. My mother, Elizabeth Grey, was the second wife of our sire, for his first, Elizabeth Zouch, a well-connected Englishwoman as was my mother, died young, leaving him with two children, including Thomas, Lord Offaly. He would someday be the 10th Earl of Kildare and, so we thought then, would also inherit his father and grandsire’s title, lord deputy of Ireland, given by the English kings. Gerald and I—though I was younger than him and a female to boot—were the leaders of our little band.
    “Row harder!” Gerald ordered as if we were Roman slaves and he emperor. Even Margaret could follow along easily today. She sat next to me and copied my pulls on the oar. We had a score of little hand signals we used between us, since she was deaf and dumb. She was learning to read, but that was slower going than we were rowing.
    “No, you beef-wit!” Gerald shouted at his younger brother. “You’re splashing me, Edward!”
    “Leave off!” I challenged Gerald. “You are the one who wanted the tiller, and the helmsman always gets wet. You’re acting like Thomas, always thinking of keeping his fancy garb clean and dry.”
    Despite Magheen’s and Collum’s coaching from the bank of the stream, we