The Wild Irish

The glorious, turbulent sixteenth century is drawing to a close. Elizabeth, Queen of England, has taken on the mighty Spanish Armada and, in a stunning sea battle, vanquished it.But her troubles are far from over. At home she is challenged at every turn by the brilliant but reckless Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, whose dangerous mix of passion and political ambition drives the aging queen to distraction. Just across the western channel, her colony Ireland is embroiled in seething rebellion, the island's fierceuntamed clan chieftains and their "wild Irish" followers refusing to bow to their English oppressors.

In the midst of the conflict is Grace O'Malley, notorious pirate, gunrunner, and "Mother of the Irish Rebellion." For years, the audacious Grace has plotted and fought against the English stranglehold on her beloved country. At the height of the uprising Grace takes an outrageous risk, sailing up the River Thames to London for a face-to-face showdown with her nemesis, the Queen of England.

The historic meeting of these two female titans --perfectly matched in guts, guile, and political genius -- sets the stage for the telling of the little-known but crucial saga of Elizabeth's Irish war, a conflict at the very root of every subsequent Irish uprising. No one breathes life into these strong and pugnacious women as does Robin Maxwell in this captivating novel, a rousing tale that makes historygloriously real.

Excerpt

Chapter One

The sun was warm on her face and she wondered, Wherewere the mists? London was perpetually shrouded in fog, wasgray and dreary. And it stank. Or so her father'd said. OwenO'Malley had sailed into London once and only once in his life, but forhis two wide-eyed children, the art of his conjuring had forever afterpainted the city a dank and fetid hole. Yet today Grace O'Malley wasblinded by sunlight. The bow of Murrough ne Doe's galley sliced theThames like a seamstress's scissors through a length of glitteringcloth - a river of diamonds, it seemed.

Perhaps, thought Grace, Elizabeth would be wearing diamonds whenthey met. The Queen of England - what would she look like? In herportraits the woman had a strange look about her. Cold. Brittle. Sharpbeak nose. And the hard gaze of a man. No, 'twould not be diamonds,Grace corrected herself. 'Twould be pearls. The first Elizabeth, it wassaid, swathed herself in pearls, both black and white, some as tiny as abead, some large as a goose's egg, the rare black ones her favorite.

A din rose from the clutter of docks and warehouses on the river'snorth shore. The long, narrow waterfront properties were abutted seamlesslytogether, ships large and small clamoring for their place at the jettiesand water stairs. Brawny shoremen grunted oaths as they labored,loading and unloading vessels, hefting plain and exotic cargoes back tohigh, timbered warehouses. Carts full of wares rumbled away down cobbled streets behind. The loudest ruckus came from the wharf receiving ashipload of wetfish whose odors - pungent and familiar - filled hernose. Fishermen were the rowdiest sailors, she knew, more so than merchantmen.Pirates even. She glimpsed seamen hurrying to finish theirchores. They'd be keen to be done, to leave the ships they'd crewed forweeks or months and swagger down the planks in boisterous bands for anight of brawling and whoring in the world's mightiest city.

Stretched out beyond the waterfront was the endless sprawl of London'ssquat and storied houses, hundreds of streets. Church spires by thedozens pierced the sky, more in one place, thought Grace, than she'deven seen in Spain. Deep in the city rose the tallest of all the steeples,surely the famous cathedral of St. Paul's. And up ahead was LondonBridge, still too far in the distance to see the heads of traitors rotting ontheir pikes.

Commercial landings now gave way to fine residences, each as largeas a small castle, broad lawns sweeping down to the river's edge. Thosewere the homes of the great lords, she knew, some of whom had beenwreaking havoc in Ireland. The sight tightened a knot in her gut. Shemust stifle her hatred. Remember her purpose. But here she was, sixty-threeyears of age. Her maiden voyage into London Town and she was apassenger on a ship not her own. Sure her colors flew below those ofMurrough ne Doe O'Flaherty, but it was humiliating all the same. Infuriating.

Well, she had come to remedy that. She would pay a wee call on thequeen, at Greenwich, and see about the disturbances. Grace wondered ifshe was as tall and bony and yellow clackered as they said she was, if thealum and eggshell face paint she wore cracked grotesquely at the cornersof her mouth and eyes. If she'd loathe the woman on sight, her enemyfor more than thirty years.

She would know soon enough, thought Grace, gripping the rail withher strong, sun-browned fingers. Soon enough indeed.

Chapter Two

The Irish galley brazenly flying her two rebel flags had,but a moment before, sailed beyond sight of the mullioned windowat Essex House. Robert Devereaux, second earl of thatname, that house, had come to gaze at the river with an eye to calming hisfrayed nerves. He'd found that the sight of ships and wherries andbarges on the wide, moving ribbon of water slowed a racing heart, measuredhis ragged breaths, even occasionally lifted the dark veil that had,periodically, fallen since childhood like a shroud on his soul. Out there,the sun glinting off the Thames, life appeared simple, mundane, whilstbehind him in his study was a roomful of Queen Elizabeth's courtiers - friends, relatives, admirers (schemers one and all) - and in their companywas every complication of which a man could dream.

Twenty-four, and I am already a great lord of England, thought Essex.He'd recently astonished even himself, being granted a seat at the tableof the Privy Council. He was Master of the Horse, a Knight of theGarter, and Elizabeth's undisputed favorite. Yet I am poor, he thoughtbitterly, the poorest earl in the kingdom. This, like his title, was a legacyfrom his father, Walter, first Earl of Essex. He bemoaned that fact everyday of his life and cursed his father, altogether conscious of the sin, butcursed him nonetheless. At age seventeen, with Walter Devereaux deadand disgraced in Ireland, and his mother despised by the queen, Roberthad to come to Court a penniless lad. Had he owned an ounce less of character and cunning, he often reminded himself, he'd have been swallowedalive by the beast that was Elizabeth's Court. Instead he had risenmore quickly - nay, shot like a star across the heavens - than even hisbenefactor, the Earl of Leicester, had envisaged he might. Yet it had beentooth and claw all the way to this moment, Essex knew, and whilst thePrivy Councilship was assured, his military exploits already the stuff oflegend, and his popularity with courtiers, beautiful waiting ladies, andthe public equally vaulted, much was nevertheless at stake. His verylivelihood!

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Wild Irishby Robin Maxwell Copyright ©2003 by Robin Maxwell. Excerpted by permission.
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