Daisy and the baby were already settled inside the coach when Eibhlin climbed in.
“Should we draw the curtains?” asked Daisy.
“Please don’t,” answered the nun. “All I’ve seen of London is a darkened river and the Tower. I’ve never been here before, and I don’t ever expect to come back. I would like to take a memory of this city back to Ireland with me.”
Niall helped his wife mount her horse. Sitting on the animal gave Skye a feeling of freedom that made her giddy. Mindful of the need for secrecy, she drew her hood about her face, noting that the coat of arms had been carefully removed from the coach doors. The coach and the four horses with their riders moved through the streets, London’s morning sounds surrounding them. “Milk! Who’ll buy my good, fresh milk?”
“Violets! Sweet violets!”
“Herring! Fresh-caught herring, ha-penny a pound!”
“Pots! Bring out your pots to mend!”
The solemn little party, well disguised, rode stolidly onward until they gained the high road. When they had traveled several miles outside the city, Skye threw back her hood with an exuberant gesture, and let her long, dark hair billow behind her. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were pink with excitement and with the joy of riding. At the top of a hill she stopped and gazed back at the city. “How did you convince Cecil to free me?” she asked her three rescuers.
“You mean Niall didn’t tell you?” demanded Robbie.
“I imagine he’d other things on his mind,” murmured de Marisco.
“Well, how did you do it?” she repeated, and they told her. “You mean you sacrificed your share of the Santa Maria Madre de Cristas for me, Adam? Your share was what you ‘found’ on board the Gazelle!” she asked when they had finished. “I’ll make it up to you! I swear it!”
“You’re free, Skye, and that’s all any of us cared about,” he protested, embarrassed.
“I included your emeralds, the ones you took for yourself. They were added to the Gazelle’s treasure,” said Niall calmly. “You took my emeralds?”
They all waited for the explosion. But Skye began to laugh. “By God,” she said, “I’ve beaten Elizabeth Tudor well and true, and in a manner I never expected to.”
“What do you mean, Skye?” asked Robert Small. “Why, Robbie, the Queen has gained nothing except some gold, and a few cold stones, but I have the true treasure. I have the three of you. Niall, my beloved husband, and my friend Adam, and my dearest Robbie. Until Bess Tudor has a husband and loyal friends like mine, she has nothing of value at all. I pity her.” They stared wonderingly at her, realizing that Skye really did pity the Queen whom she had bested. The three men felt a burning sting behind their eyes, and each blinked rapidly, unashamed. Skye gazed at each of them long and lovingly, and her smile was as bright as the morning. “Gentlemen! I’m for home!” she cried. And wheeling her horse about, Skye O’Malley galloped off in the late-April sunshine, and down the road to Devon.
Bertrice Small
