Bertrice Small - Skye O’Malley

Of course, Dame Cecily knew Skye’s real story, but she agreed
with her brother that the less spectacular history he had invented was
a better one.

Skye’s arrival with her two servants and her resettlement at Wren
Court was accepted easily by the Smalls’ friends and their few relations. The servants, gossiping from house to house, were sym-
pathetic to the beautiful, pregnant widow. Skye was modest and
kind, a true lady, even if she was a papist. The memory of Mary
Tudor was still too fresh for the people of England to be very tolerant
toward Catholicism.

It was almost Christmas before the first frost arrived and that
caused the people of Devon to mutter about a hard winter to come.
Skye had confided the secret of her memory loss to the local priest.
Elderly, kindly Father Paul retaught her the tenets of her religion.
Though it evoked no memories, it was strangely comforting. Skye
did this because she knew that never to attend church in a Christian
land would promote suspicion. It seemed that everyone needed a
label, and even a papist label was more respectable than none.

Shortly after Candlemas in February, Marie gave birth to a fine
big boy who was baptized Henri. Skye had embroidered some little
gowns for the child. She loved sitting in Marie’s cottage near the
fire, watching while Marie nursed her son. Her own babe was strong
and kicked vigorously, to her discomfort and her joy. She had de-
cided to call him James, which was the English equivalent of Khalid
el Bey’s Spanish name, Diego. As her time drew near she was eager
for the baby’s birth.

On the fifth of April, Dame Cecily hadn’t even time to summon
a midwife before Skye’s child was bom. Marie handled everything,
and the birth was a quick and easy one. No sooner had the child slid
from between its mother’s legs and given its first cry than Skye
slipped into unconsciousness.

Handing the squalling infant to Dame Cecily, Marie whispered,
”My poor mistress! Ah, well, it’s God’s will.”

When Skye opened her eyes she found herself in a clean night-
gown, her long hair freshly brushed and braided. “Give me my son,”
she whispered to Dame Cecily.

“It’s a wee girlie you’ve birthed, my dear, and never have I seen
a prettier child.” She placed the sleeping infant in Skye’s arms.

Skye looked down at her baby. It was a lovely little creature with
a mop of damp dark hair, long dark eyelashes, pink-tinted cheeks,
and a red bow of a mouth. The skin was as fair as Skye’s own. “A
daughter,” she said softly, “I didn’t expect a daughter.”

“What will you name her, my dear?” inquired Dame Cecily
gently.

Skye gazed out the windows opposite her bed. In the garden
beyond, the spring flowers were all in bloom, and a willow tree
drooped its newly sprouted yellow green leaves by a small pond.
”I shall call her Willow,” she said. “It is fitting that Khalid el Bey’s
daughter be named after the tree of mourning.”

Willow, though she had been born in sorrow, was a child of
gladness. Everyone in the house adored the infant, from her mother
to the lowliest little maid. All tried to make her smile.

When Willow was five months old, Skye decided it was time to
go to London. Robert Small had made only one brief trip away,
down the coast of Africa, in the ten months since he had brought
Skye to his home. Though it had pleased his sister to have him
home, he itched to take the Mermaid off on a good long voyage.
First, however, he had to go to London and see if Lord de Grenville
could obtain letters giving him royal patronage. Skye was prepared
to invest in this latest venture, and she, too, desired to go to London.

The Mermaid was berthed in Plymouth on the channel side of
Devon. Jean would go to London with Skye, but Marie would remain at Wren Court caring for both babies. She had already taken
over the nursing of Willow, her large peasant breasts producing more
than enough milk for the two children. To Dame Cecily’s relief,
Skye considered the mild air of Devon more salubrious for her
daughter than the climate of London. Dame Cecily could not have
been happier. Skye had become the daughter she had never had, and
Willow her grandchild. It pained her to part with one, but to part
with both would have broken her heart.

Skye was feeling the pain of separation as well. “Oh, I wish you
would come with me, Dame Cecily! I have so much to do, and your
help would be invaluable. Heaven only knows what condition the
house is in, and I shall probably have to refurnish it. Promise me
that when it is done, you’ll come up to London with Marie and the
children.”

“Of course I will, my child. Lord bless me. I’ve not been to
Londontown since I was a girl and that’s thirty years past! I believe
I’ve a hankering to go again, and I’ll come when you’ve got your
house in order.”

They rode out from Wren Court on a bright, early autumn morning.

Skye had lingered with Willow, loam to leave the baby. Finally
Robbie had shouted at her in exasperation, “Dammit, lass! The
sooner you get to London, the sooner she can be with you again!”
Skye kissed her daughter and, mounting her horse, rode off. The
countryside through which they traveled was hilly. They rode by
grain fields ready for harvesting, meadows of sheep and Devon
cattle, and thriving orchards. Ahead of them the flat granite tableland
of Dartmoor thrust up from the rolling hills, and it was there in an
inn called The Rose and Anchor that they spent the night.

When they had arrived the inn was empty, so Robbie decided
they could eat in the taproom. But as the meal was served, a party
of riders arrived and trooped noisily into the inn.

“Damn,” muttered Robbie irritably, “I wish I’d asked for a private
room. They’re noblemen, and if they get rowdy we’re in for it.”

Suddenly a voice boomed across the room and a man detached
himself from the crowd. “Robert Small! Is that you, you old sea
trout?”

Robbie’s eyes lit up, and he quickly stood. “My lord de Grenville!
It is good to see you. Join us in a cup of wine.”

De Grenville had reached the table. “Your manners, Robbie,” he
chided. “You’ve not introduced the lady to me yet.”

The sea captain flushed. “Your pardon, Skye. May I present Lord
Richard de Grenville. My lord, this is Senora Goya del Fuentes. the
widow of my late Algerian business associate. I am escorting her,
and her secretary, Jean Morlaix, to her house in London.”

Skye slowly extended her hand and de Grenville kissed it. “My
lord.”

“Madam. A pleasure, I assure you. I find it most reprehensible
of Robbie to have such extraordinary luck.”

“Luck, my lord?”

‘To be escorting quite the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen to
London.”

Skye laughed as she blushed. “My lord de Grenville. I fear you’ll
quite overwhelm me with your flattery. Please, do sit down and join
us.”

“You’re not Spanish,” he observed as he seated himself.

“No, I am Irish.”

De Grenville poured himself a goblet of wine. “I thought so.
Most outrageously beautiful women in the world. Tell me, madam,
how do you find England? Is this your first trip here?”

“Yes, it is, and I find England a joy, sir. I have been living at
Robbie’s home for close to a year now.”

“Skye was enciente with her husband’s child when we first ar-
rived,” Robbie explained hastily lest de Grenville misunderstand.

“A son or a daughter, madam?”

“A daughter. Her name is Willow. I have left her at Wren Court
with Dame Cecily and her wet nurse. I know not in what condition
I will find my husband’s house, so until I have time to refurbish it,
she is best left in Devon.”

Across the room, where de Grenville’s party of friends were
sprawled about a table, one man, lean, blond and arrogantly handsome, stared boldly at Skye. She was incensed when he caught her
eye and then raised an elegant eyebrow in a manner that could have
but one meaning. It was as plain a request as though he had spoken
aloud, and just as insulting. Angrily she turned away, tossing her
head, and listened once more to what de Grenville was saying.

“Very wise, madam. London is not a town for tender creatures.”

“So I have heard, my lord,” replied Skye. Then, ‘Tell me, sir,
who is the gentleman in your party who stares at me so rudely? The
one with the face of an angel.”

De Grenville didn’t even bother turning around. Her description
was enough. “Lord Southwood, madam, the Earl of Lynmouth.”

“Robbie, please escort me to my room and arrange to have a tray
sent up. The Earl makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. He gazes
at me as he would a tray of sweetmeats.” She stood, casually brushing
her long riding skirt free of crumbs. “My lord de Grenville. I bid
you good night.” She held out her slim hand and he kissed it.
”Madam. I hope we will meet in London. Now, allow me to escort
both you and Robbie past your ardent admirer.”

But it wasn’t to be that easy. As they neared the taproom door,
the Earl of Lynmouth moved to block their way.

De Grenville grinned. “Give over, Southwood. The lady is leav-
ing.”

“Not before we’re introduced, my dear Dickon. You simply can-
not hoard all the beauties to yourself.”

De Grenville shrugged. “Senora Goya del Fuentes, Lord Geoffrey
Southwood. Now, Geoff, let us pass.”

“Senora, will you share a goblet of wine with me?”

“No, sir. I will not,” snapped Skye. She pushed past him and left
the taproom, Robbie in her wake.

De Grenville laughed softly. “Geoff, you’ve been quite properly
bested, I do believe.”

Lord Southwood went white about the corners of his mouth.
”Who is she, Dickon?”
. “The widow of Captain Small’s business partner.”

“She’s not Spanish.”

“Her husband was. She’s Irish.”

“She’s magnificent. I intend having her,” said Southwood.

“I have heard that your taste runs to women unable to protect
themselves, Geoff. Senora Goya del Fuentes is a very wealthy
woman. You won’t be able to bully her, and she’ll not be bowled
over by a few baubles or a cheap gown. I wager she’ll send you
packing.”

“How much will you wager, Richard?”

De Grenville let a slow smile spread over his face. Southwood
had a magnificent stud stallion that de Grenville coveted. “One year’s
time, Geoff. At the end of that time you’ll turn over your stud,
Dragon’s Fire, to me.”

“Six months, Dickon, at which time you’ll turn over to me your
magnificently outfitted river barge.”

De Grenville winced. His barge was the most elegant on the river,
and even the Queen coveted it. Still, he reasoned, the beautiful
Senora Goya del Fuentes was no lightskirt and she had obviously
detested Southwood on sight. It was unlikely that she would suc-
cumb, and besides he wanted that stallion very much.

“Done!” he said decisively. “Your stallion against my barge. The
time period to be six months from this day.” He held out his hand
and Southwood shook it firmly.

“Try not to damage my barge this autumn, Dickon,” Southwood
said mockingly. “Come spring, I shall want to take my new mistress
cruising on the river.”

“I won’t, Geoff. And you see that my stallion is well cared for
and not overbred?”

The two men parted then, each secure in the knowledge that he
would soon possess a coveted new toy.

Geoffrey Southwood did not know what intrigued him the most-
the lovely widow’s beauty, her air of breeding, or her dislike of
him. He would enjoy the challenge of seducing and taming her. And
he would be the envy of London for owning such a fine mistress.
By fair means or foul, Southwood vowed he would have her.

Skye’s house was located on the Strand on the Green in the
village of Chiswick outside of the city of London. The last
building in the row, it was much less pretentious than its
neighbors. Farther down the line were the palaces of such
great lords as Salisbury and Worcester, and the bishop of Durham.
They had sailed from Plymouth up the coast into the mouth of
the Thames. There the Mermaid had anchored in the Pool awaiting
her chance to dock in London. Skye, Jean Morlaix, and Robert Small
had disembarked and ridden ahead. It would be several weeks before
the Mermaid was assigned a wharf space, and Robert Small trusted
his reliable first mate to oversee the ship in his absence.

Skirting.the main portion of the city, they soon arrived at Chis-
wick. It was a small and charming village with an excellent inn, the
Swan, on the far side of its green. Here they stopped to refresh
themselves with cups of freshly pressed cider, warm newly baked
bread covered with pink ham, and a sharp, pale, golden cheese.

Skye was ravenous and ate eagerly, much to the beaming approval
of the fat innkeeper. He poured her another foaming goblet of cider.