Read Ring of Fire III for Free Online Page B

change is never easy. Never. Particularly not when one has to make many changes, and all at once.
    “And that is what is sure to happen here in the Lowlands. Soon, you will all have a choice to make. And it can’t be long in coming, because Fernando is running out of money with which to pay you. So, before that day comes, I counsel you: think upon your oaths, and listen to your hearts. Task them to answer this one, simple question: where is your loyalty? To Philip and Olivares or to Isabella and Fernando? To a distant king’s coin, or to each other? For rest assured, that choice is coming—for each and every one of you.”
    O’Donnell stepped from behind the table, crouched down as if he were going to scratch a battle plan on the ground—but what it did was put him at eye-level with even the lowliest man in the room. “Always remember this, lads. We Wild Geese—we’re all birds of a feather. We’ve been harrowed, but never broken—because we’ve always stuck together.”
    O’Neill wanted to sneer, but he couldn’t—partly because O’Donnell hadn’t parsed the old saw as doggerel, so it hadn’t sounded trite. But mostly because he could see—could feel—all the men around him respond to the elemental honesty that shone out of Hugh’s eyes. O’Neill wished he could look away, could be somewhere else—anything, just so he wouldn’t have to see the indictment of his own clan laid out so plainly before him. The O’Donnells were leaders, always had been. They could touch hearts at a gesture, bond men to them with a whisper. Obversely, every O’Neill of note had made his name as a fighter, an intriguer, often a shrewd manipulator who might even conspire with an enemy, if it served his ultimate goals. They were renowned, feared, even respected—but never admired or loved. And that, Owen admitted, was probably the real reason behind the prickly hauteur of the Tyrones: a jealous envy after the natural nobility that they lacked.
    Owen cleared his throat. “You’ve given us much to think about, Lord Tyrconnell. I wish you safe travels—and Godspeed. And now, I should be going.”
    O’Donnell straightened up. “And I’ve stayed longer than is safe. Until we meet again, Owen.”
    Who nodded, wanted to say—something—but could not decide what it should be. So he simply added a second nod and let a potentially bonding moment slip by.
    Just as he had all his life.
    * * *
    O’Rourke made sure that Preston’s tent was empty except for two orderlies, who stayed busy—and distant—moving gear to the newly completed blockhouse. When O’Rourke indicated that the young soldiers were out of earshot, O’Donnell muttered, “There’s one person in particular who’ll now be watching all of what you do here. Very closely.”
    “Who?”
    “Isabella—my aunt.” The earl paused, looked down. “Returning the honors I had from Philip was a shame, but leaving her service—that was a hard, hard step to take.”
    O’Rourke poured a small mug of half-beer for himself. “Huh. Now that’s something I never did understand, m’lord.”
    “What?”
    “Why you always doted on the Infanta, and she on you.”
    “Well, she’s my godmother—and has looked out for me since I was a babe.”
    “Mebbe. But she also derailed the Killybegs invasion in 1627, and when at first she couldn’t scuttle it herself, she insisted that it be led by John O’Neill—with you to be left behind in the Lowlands. Just the opposite of what Philip had called for.”
    “Oh, that. You misunderstand. She didn’t pass me over.”
    “No? What would you call it, then?”
    “She was protecting me. I was twenty-two, green as could be, and yes, Philip was going to put me over John—who’d no doubt have found some excuse to put me in my grave once we were in Ireland. Besides, she wanted me where she thought I’d do the most good.”
    “You’d do the most good here ? Was she mad?”
    O’Rourke looked away from the gaze Hugh fixed on him.