Bertrice Small - All the Sweet Tomorrows

The second book in the Skye O'Malley series, 1984

– Anonymous Irish poem, 17th or 18th century

THE O'MALLETS OF INNISFANA ISLAND, IRELAND

SKYE O'MALLEY known as the O'Malley, chief of her clan

SEAMUS O'MALLEY her elderly uncle, Bishop of Mid-Connaught

ANNE O'MALLEY Skye's widowed stepmother

EIBHLLN O'MALLEY Skye's elder sister, a nun and a doctor

MOIRE, PEIGI, BRIDE, AND SINE Skye's other sisters, all older

MICHAEL O'MALLEY Skye's full brother, a priest

BRIAN, SHANE, SHAMUS, AND CONN Anne's sons, Skye's half-brothers

THE HUSBANDS OF SKYE O'MALLEY

DOM O'FLAHERTY her first, the Master of Ballyhennessey

KHALLD EL BEY (Diego India Goya de Fuentes) her second, known as "the Great Whoremaster of Algiers," a Spaniard turned Moslem

LORD GEOFFREY SOUTHWOOD her third, the Earl of Lynmouth, known as the "Angel Earl"

LORD NIALL BURKE her fourth, and Skye's first love

THE CHILDREN OF SKYE O'MALLEY

EWAN O'FLAHERTY born March 28th, 1556

MURROUGH O'FLAHERTY born January 15th, 1557

WILLOW MARY SMALL born April 5th, 1560

ROBERT SOUTHWOOD born September 18th, 1563

JOHN SOUTHWOOD born December 15th, 1564, died April 15, 1566

DELRDRE BURKE born December 12th, 1567

PADRAIC BURKE born January 30th, 1569

THE STEPCHILDREN OF SKYE O'MALLEY

SUSANNE SOUTHWOOD betrothed to Lord Trevenyan

GWYNETH AND JOAN SOUTHWOOD twin sisters, betrothed to Skye's sons, Ewan and Murrough O'Flaherty

SKYE'S FRIENDS

SIR ROBERT SMALL Skye's business partner

DAME CECILY SMALL his elder sister, a widow

ADAM DE MARISCO the Lord of Lundy Island

DAISY Skye's tiring woman and faithful confidante

SIR RICHARD DE GRENVILLE Skye's old friend, a sea captain

THE IRISH

THE MACWILILAM Niall Burke's father

CAPTAIN SEAN MACGULRE the senior captain of the O'Malley fleet

CAPTAIN BRAN KELLY an O'Malley captain

CLAIRE O'FLAHERTY Dom O'Flaherty's sister

SISTER MARY PENITENT the former Darragh O'NeiL Niall's first wife, marriage annulled

THE ENGLISH

ELIZABETH TUDOR the Queen of England, 1558 to 1603

WILLIAM CECIL, LORD BURGHLEY the English Secretary of State, and the Queen's greatest confidant

ROBERT DUDLEY, THE EARL OF LEICESTER the Queen's oldest friend, and favorite

SIR CHRISTOPHER HATTON another of the Queen's favorites, and Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners

LETTICE KNOLLYS, COUNTESS OF ESSEX the Queen's cousin

THE ALGERIANS

OSMAN a famous astrologer and Skye's old friend

ALLMA his French wife

“This is all your fault, you meddling old man!" Skye O'Malley Burke shouted at her father-in-law, the MacWilliam of Mid-Connaught. Her blue-green eyes flashed fire, and her marvelous long, black hair, unbound and unruly, swirled about her shoulders as she paced furiously about the room. "You've gone and widowed me! Wasn't it enough that your wicked machinations kept Niall and mc separated all those years? Now you've widowed me! God curse you for it, old man! I’ll never forgive you! Never!" Then she burst into tears, collapsing onto the carved oak settle by the fireplace.

The old man's face disintegrated under her fierce attack, and he seemed to shrink in size, as if seeking to escape the terrible, harsh truth of her words. "How could I stop him, Skye lass? Niall is a man long grown," his voice quavered. "He would not listen to me. How could I stop him?"

She looked at him scornfully, and he withered further under her look of contempt. "You knew that Darragh CNeil was a madwoman for all her religious calling, old man. You knew! Still you let my husband ride off to her, and to his own death!" She closed her eyes a moment, and more tears spilled down her cheeks. "Oh, Niall," she whispered brokenly. Niall! Niall! Niall! came the mocking echo in her mind.

The old man sniffed piteously as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, then said, "At least we've got the children, Skye lass. We've got Niall's son and daughter."

" You have nothing, '' she. told him coldly. "I will take my children and leave this place. I will go home to Innisfana. I have always hated Burke Castle, but for Niall's sake I lived here. Now my husband is dead, and I will stay no longer!"

Suddenly the MacWilliam grew angry, a bit of his old spirit coursing back through his tired veins. "You'll not take Niall's children from me!" he thundered at her. They are my heirs, the boy in particular. You cannot take them!"

Her fair features darkened with outraged fury, and he could have sworn that sparks shot from her blazing blue eyes. "Do you think that I would let you have my babes?" she hissed angrily at him. "I'll see you in Hell first!"

"You've no choice, Skye lass. Padraic is my heir with his father gone, and wee Deirdre after him. I’ll not let you take them from me!" For a brief moment he felt sure afid strong again.

"Old man, you'll not stop me from whatever I choose to do!" Skye O'Malley declared. Then she rose from the settle and stormed from the room, not seeing his tired shoulders slump forward, defeated by the knowledge that she would leave him if she chose, taking his only grandchildren with her.

He coughed deeply and, turning, spit a clot of black blood into the pewter basin on the table. The blood had been coming up for several weeks now. His instinct told him that he did not have a great deal of time left to live. Until now it had not worried him particularly, for his son had been a strong, wise man, mature for his years. Now, however, Niall was dead, and his only living male heir was six weeks old. The babe was strong, but anything was possible. If the child died before reaching his majority the English would eat up his holdings as they had so many in the past several years. They might anyway.

Where had the time gone? the MacWilliam wondered. It only seemed a short time ago that he had been a young man in his full vigor, ready and eager to bed a hot-blooded wench. Now he was but a broken old man, clutching his faded memories and shattered dreams about him like a tattered cloak; his thin white hair lank upon his bony shoulders.

The MacWilliam sighed sadly. God help Ireland-for surely no one else would. The Irish stood quite alone, England to one side of them, the open sea on the other. In a way it was their own fault, for they had no one ruler to rally them, but rather a thousand petty, bickering chieftains, each jealously guarding his own holding, and each making the alliances best suited to himself, not necessarily to Ireland. It was no wonder that the English with their one strong ruler could overcome the Irish. Irishmen, 'twas true, would not be conquered by war, but rather by their own weaknesses.