The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ePub Bud (www.epubbud.com)
Published: 2013-07-28T04:00:00+00:00

. . . with outrageous cry

a thousand villiens round about them swarmed out of the rocks and caves ajoining nye; Vile caitive wretches, ragged, rude, deformed, All threatening death, all in strange manner armed; Some with unwieldy clubs, some with long spears, Some rusty knives, some staves in fire warmed.

“Sounds exactly like last month’s tilt at Nonesuch,” said Cuffe. “Men dressed as ‘Wild Irish’ staged a mock fight for the queen. Their matted hair all down round their faces, saffron tunics, furred cloaks, battle-axes and terrible screams. ’Twas frightening, I tell you, even though we knew it was arranged.”

“Henry Sidney—and who knows better than he?—believes the Irish wish for direct rule,” Bacon insisted. “The gentlemen of Cork are begging for it, he says. ‘With open mouths and hands held up to heaven, crying out for justice.’ ”

“ ’Tis an evil place,” Southampton agreed. “It corrupts and debases everyone who’s sent there to tame it. Men become infected with the ‘Irish Disease.’ You should know that, Robert, your father died there.” He looked closely at Essex. “Surely you’re not thinking—”

“I need a battle.” Essex’s eyes were distant and vaguely haunted.

“Perhaps I should go to Ireland.”

“And play right into the Cecils’ hands?” Bacon argued. “They enjoy pushing you into dangerous military campaigns, hoping you’ll be killed or disgrace yourself. Or spend all your money the way you did in France and Portugal.”

“The queen does seem determined to establish our legal system in Ireland,” said Southampton.

“And just as determined to spend as little money as possible to do so,” Bacon added. “I say her meanness is Ireland’s only hope of evading England’s clutches.”

“My Lord Essex.” A new voice, younger and less bold than the others, interrupted. They looked up to see a page, one of Elizabeth’s pretty young men. “The queen wishes your immediate attendance on her.”

“At this hour?” said Essex.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ooh, what have you done now?” Southampton said, teasing.

“I don’t like your chances for a happy occasion,” Francis Bacon agreed.

“He ’s still her favorite, is he not?” Will Shakespeare piped up. “I say she craves the man’s company. And why not? We do.”

“Well said, Will.” Essex clapped the poet on the back, then stood. He pulled at his doublet to straighten it, and Southampton gave his hose a playful tug above the buttocks, receiving a smack on the head for his efforts. Everyone laughed and the earl exited the tavern with his usual grace, amidst good-natured good-byes and happily drunken shouts from the throng of his general admirers.

No one noticed as he departed that his smile was more plastered on than genuine, nor the lines of worry that creased his handsome forehead.

GOOD EVENING, Robin,” she said in a mild tone, and with an expression so even that Essex could determine nothing from it. He had come, where he was bidden, to her bedchamber.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” he replied with more formality than he was normally wont to assume. His bow was low but lacked the flam-boyant flourishes that might be construed as levity.

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