“Shane O’Neill begs your pardon,” Liam said briskly, without emotion. “He is the lawful and legitimate son of Bachach, while Matthew was born of a locksmith married to a woman named Alison, and great deceit was made upon all. Matthew is not and has not ever had the right to claim succession, but justice has been done, making it clear that there is but one lawful heir to the lands in question, that legitimate and rightful heir being the O’Neill.”
There was a moment of silence. Elizabeth looked down at Shane O’Neill, still lying upon the wooden floor, wondering how to address him, then at his fearless son. “Is not Matthew dead?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. He had been murdered by Shane O’Neill. Rumors also abounded that many of O’Neill’s cousins had died strangely accidental deaths. And gossip also held he had imprisoned poor Bachach, his own father, in order to usurp the O’Neill chieftaincy and lands, and that Bachach was dead now, too.
“Yes,” the son said. He offered no explanation, and no sign of guilt flickered in his eyes.
Shane suddenly rose to his feet. Elizabeth did not move, but the three men standing beside her all flinched. Elizabeth focused on O’Neill. She must grant his pardon, as she and her Council had planned. But she was at a loss. How in God’s name should she address him? It was clear he would resist the English title of earl, and she was not certain now that she should grant him the earldom anyway. He was clearly defiant—clearly dangerous. Yet a truce must be reached.
Dudley leaned close to her. “You must not address him as the O’Neill. Nor must you insult him.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened.
Cecil whispered, “As he will not accept our title—we must think of another appellation of distinction, something he will think grand.”
Elizabeth shot a glance at the pair standing before her, the shaggy-haired bearlike father, a notorious murderer, a rapist, a savage, and the lean, golden Adonis-like son. Shane was grinning, his eyes gleaming. Liam was expressionless. She now noticed that Liam was dressed exactly like his father, in a coarse cloak and tunic, his feet bare. She recalled the small boy in doublet and hose and leather shoes, a red plume waving from his hat. A wave of pity washed over her. But then their gazes met, his mocking, and she chased away any sympathy she might wish to feel. He was unquestionably a savage now, like his father, undoubtedly dangerous and not to be pitied at all.
Cecil said in a low tone, “O’Neill the Great. I wager he will love that.”
“That’s hardly enough,” snapped Ormond. “’Tis no different from the O’Neill.”
“It matters not,” Dudley countered. “He is here—he has obeyed the queen, more than obeyed, in making himself prostrate.”
Elizabeth smiled at the O’Neill. “O’Neill the Great,” she said in a loud, carrying voice, aware of the surprise of the crowd and of Shane’s open pleasure, “cousin to St. Patrick and friend to the queen of England, we hereby grant you pardon and welcome you warmly to Londontown, wishing you God bless.”
Shane’s smile faded. His succession to the O’Neill lands had not been recognized—and he as well as everyone else knew it.
The tavern consisted of a single, malodorous smoke-filled room. Too many unwashed bodies had been crammed into the establishment night after night, year after year, and too often those drunken patrons had relieved one need or another without adjourning upstairs or outside.
Now the room was as crowded as always, but no Englishman had remained once Shane’s frightening and savage horde had arrived. The Irishmen quaffed mug after mug of ale, singing tunes either lewd or victorious while mauling the buxom serving girls as they passed.
Liam sat alone in a corner, watching thecelebrations from afar. He was still on his first mug of ale, and rarely did he sip. He did not sing, did not smile. His gaze moved over the familiar faces crowding the room, as always, coming to settle upon his father as if purposefully seeking him out.
Shane was standing, toasting the yellow-livered, spineless queen, his words treasonous and should any of the maids or the proprietor care to inform upon the events of the evening, Shane might very well find himself in the Tower. His father was courting disaster with his actions now, and his son did not care. He was only Shane’s son by the fact of his mother’s violent rape, by the coincidence of the blood running in their veins. And although, seven years ago, Liam had thought Shane to be invincible, he now knew that no man was immortal and a man like Shane, who lived so dangerously, invited death. Liam knew he would shed no tears on the day his father met his Maker, knew there would only be relief.
Shane was all wolfish smiles, downing his tenth mug of the night. Ale did not affect him—nothing affected him. Shane finished his toast, his men cheering. He reached out and seized one of the passing maids. The girl was attacked so unexpectedly that, crying out, she dropped her tray and all the mugs it contained. Shane promptly placed her on his lap, one arm a manacle around her waist, his other hand inside her bodice, scooping up her breast. His men laughed at the sight of the woman’s naked flesh.
Liam stiffened. In his mind he saw his mother, pale, blond, bitter, and stunningly beautiful as she had been when he had last seen her, when he was ten years old and being taken away by the father he had never known. He shook her image free and faced his father and the serving girl, wishing she would receive Shane the way the Irish girls did, with lusty eagerness. In Ireland Shane was a hero.
But the maid looked terrified, twisting ineffectually while Shane laughed and squeezed her nipple. The girl began to cry.
Liam was on his feet. He wasn’t afraid of his father, although he had every right to be. He had stopped beingafraid many years ago—the fear had been beaten out of him. He shoved through the crowded tables, and Shane finally saw him coming. He ceased stroking the girl, anticipation lighting his eyes. She also saw Liam, and she grew utterly still, her eyes wide.
“Release her,” Liam said.
Shane barked with laughter, shoving the girl off of his lap so abruptly that she tumbled to the floor. He rose to his full height; the girl scurried away. Liam tensed, prepared for the inevitable. No man, not even his son, could challenge the O’Neill without paying the bloody consequences. Shane’s meaty fist swung out. Liam blocked the blow but staggered backward under the incredible impact. His father weighed 240 pounds and there was no fat on his massive frame. They both knew that Shane was far stronger than Liam, but what only Liam knew was that one day the scales would tip in his favor. He would make certain of that.
And he looked forward to that day.
Liam was off-balance. He took his father’s next blow in his gut, doubling over in pain. But he did not cry out. Stoic acceptance of pain had also been beaten into him. Another blow took him squarely in the jaw and sent him flying backward onto a table. Liam fell hard on the wood surface, sending mugs of ale and plates of food to the floor, blood spurting from his mouth.
Shane towered over him. “Come, boyo, surely you have not had enough?” he mocked. “Surely you do not yet taste the sourness of defeat?”
Liam forced himself to sit up and slide to his feet. “One day,” he said, low, “I am going to kill you.”
Shane laughed. “You’ll have to make haste, if you think to be the one to send me to my Maker.”
Father and son stared at each other, Shane grinning, Liam expressionless. Except for his eyes. They blazed with hatred.
Shane shoved his bearded face close to his son’s. “You are weak,” he growled. “To fight me over a worthless woman, an English slut? She means naught! You think to succeed me as the O’Neill? Hah! No Irishman will everproclaim you their chief, not with that weak English blood running in your veins! I do not wish for you to succeed me!”
