CHAPTER THREE

 

I will bring honor to your name in every generation. Therefore, the nations will praise you forever and ever.

(Psalms 45:17)

 

A warm fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and popping, spitting tiny glowing embers onto the royal blue rug. It was a bone-chilling evening, icy sleet pelting the windows. Sir Thomas rested in his chair by the fire, reading the Scriptures. Lady Elizabeth sat nearby sewing buttons on one of her husband’s work shirts. John and William were engaged in a silent game of chess, and Mary and I were embroidering tea towels. Lizzie was engrossed in a book—her usual pastime. Little Thomas, who was playing with toy soldiers on the brocade runner at his father’s feet unexpectedly stood and ran to the doorway.

“Dammother Fona,” he cried in his tongue-tied voice, as he clung to her skirts.

All eyes in the room turned to the tiny figure in the doorway, leaning heavily on a mahogany cane carved with the head of a griffin. William had brought it back to her from Tuscany only a week ago, after a voyage of nearly three months.

“Well, can enna one join this jolly group, or is this a private party?” she inquired with a thick Irish brogue. Her once-auburn hair, now snowy white, was neatly coiled upon her head. Sir Thomas set aside his Bible and quickly crossed the room, taking his mother’s arm, escorting her to her favorite chair—a red velvet one across from his near the fire.

“Please, Mother, sit down. We thought you sleeping after dinner. What made you come downstairs? Where is Molly?”

“Oh, I canna tolerate the silence of my room a moment longer. Molly’s a-sleepin’, so I sneaked out. I decided ta see what the family ‘twas doin’ tonight. Obviously, nothin’, by tha looks o’ things.” Her hazel eyes scanned the room, coming to rest briefly on each of us.

Grandmother could be very feisty at times and always spoke exactly what was on her mind.

“Grandmother, won’t you tell us a story?” Mary asked, coming to sit at her feet.

“What t’would you like ta hear, girl?” She always called us ‘girls’, rarely using our given names.

“How about the story of Grandfather, and Uncle Donnell and Red Hugh, and how we came to England?”

“Mary, you always ask for that one,” William alleged, looking up from the chessboard.

“I don’t care,” she countered huffily, shaking her red-gold curls. “I love it. Please, Grandmother?”

“Oh, all right, céadsearc,” Fionna agreed, smiling broadly, and patting Mary’s head. “That one’s a favorite ‘o mine, too.”

We all settled back into our seats in preparation, as the mother of Sir Thomas retold the tale of Red Hugh. As frail as she was, Grandmother’s rare appearances always meant the occasion to learn more about my family’s history. Against my better judgment, John had enlightened her as to my true identity. I’d expected her to label me a witch, but surprisingly she had taken the news rather well, agreeing it best that my secret not become common knowledge, even within the family. Many times, she would call me to her rooms to inquire of the wonders of the 21^st century, wishing she was able to travel to the future to see firsthand how the world was in my own time.

I looked around at the anxious faces, waiting for the story to come, even though it had obviously been told and retold many times. Finally, Grandmother Fionna gathered herself together and in her lilting Irish brogue began the tale of the earliest beginnings of the Keeney family.

“‘Twas durin’ the Plantation years, it ‘twas, late in 1593. My Robbie and his brother Donnell Ballagh ‘twere fightin’ alongside Red Hugh O’Donnell, protestin’ the thievery of the King, takin’ Irish lands and givin’ them ta Englishmen. (Oh, may the Lord and the Blessed Virgin keep Donnell Ballagh in their hands, while he sits a-dyin’ in the Tower.)

“Well, Robbie and Hugh had been captured and taken ta prison in Dublin, but with the help of Donnell and other friends loyal and true, they had escaped the castle and made their way through the blindin’ snow and freezin’ cold, back to Ulster. ‘Twas a perilous journey, it ‘twas, as they were hemmed in by enemies on every side. The snow was ablowin’ fierce. It ‘twasn’t a fit night for man nor beast.

“Crossin’ the River Boyne, they steered clear of comin’ too close ta Drogheda and Dundalk, and finally arrived ta the safety of O’Neill’s castle in Kinnard. After restin’ for a night, they headed west, stoppin’ for respite with the McKennas of North Monaghan, before finally reachin’ the O’Donnell castle in Donegal.

“The English had been holed up in the monastery of Donegal, you see, but they mightily feared young Hugh and left it quick enough, when he demanded they give it up. They ‘twere all exhausted, but most ‘twere in good health. Poor Hugh O’Donnell, however, ‘twasn’t so lucky—for he’d lost both his great toes ta frostbite and could never walk proper again. Oh, but he ‘twasn’t put off by it, and soon joined his agin’ father on the battlefield, bein’ carried on a litter by his own sons.” She was silent for a few moments, catching her breath.

“Who else was there, Grandmother?” John said, urging her on when it appeared she was losing her train of thought. At well past ninety, losing one’s thought was a simple matter.

“Let her tell the story, brother,” Mary shushed him, waving her hand.

“Well, let me see now,” Grandmother took off again, looking upwards, as if trying to see the scene in her mind. “There ‘twas the MacSweeneys, the O’Dohertys, the Campbells—all the chiefs of Tir Connaill ‘twere there.” Now she was back on track, and her voice became animated, her eyes dancing with light.

“My Robbie ‘twas upset with Red Hugh, he ‘twas, ‘cause Hugh wanted ta make peace with the other Hugh—O’Neill, it ‘twas— because Red Hugh realized that the constant fightin’ b’twixt the O’Neills and the O’Donnells ‘twas a-weakenin’ the unity of Ulster. The O’Keane’s (that’s us, ya know) had a long-standin’ feud with the O’Neills—over what I never did know. But Red Hugh did as he thought best and peace ‘twas made. The Macquires and O’Rourkes, along with the McMahons, however, joined forces against ‘em, hopin’ ta come out ahead on what they knew was a-losin’ battle with the English king.

“Oh, my soul, it ‘twas a sad day, indeed, when they fought the Battle of Belleek, for although the O’Neill defeated the Macquires, he ‘twas wounded sore and my poor, poor Robbie lost his life—and more importantly, the O’Keane lands were forever forfeited ta the bloody, filthy, murderous English king.” She spat out these final words with venom. “And poor, poor Donnell Ballagh…….” Tears were coursing down her wrinkled cheeks, and she fought to control the sobs which were just under the surface of her emotions. Finally, she swallowed visibly and cleared her throat.

“And that’s how we came ta this place. Thomas ‘twas seventeen and your Uncle Charles only fourteen. It ‘twas a difficult task tryin’ ta keep them from goin’ after the English soldiers what killed their father and imprisoned their uncle. And my poor, little Mary, a ghrá mo chroi, only ten, took a fever and died before we’d been here a fortnight. We ‘twere just fortunate ta have had my brother, Andrew, here ta welcome us into his home, or we ‘twouldn’t have survived that first winter. I remember, it ‘twas awful cold that year……”

Her voice trailed off, and she drifted away from us into her memories. I knew that the family relished the stories she told, but I could see that the telling of them triggered deep sorrow in her soul. Her Robbie had been the love of her life. I’d never heard her say an unkind or derogatory remark about him. Looking across the room at my husband, I knew how she felt.

From prior stories, I’d learned that Sir Thomas’ family roots were deeply entrenched in the Irish soil. From 1170, the O’Keanes (originally known as O’Cahans) were overlords of territory that spread out from the Limavady region, north across the Faughan and Roe valleys, east beyond Binevenagh Mountain to Coleraine and the Bann, and south through the upper Roe valley to Dungiven and the Sperrin Mountains beyond. John had told me once that the family had come from west Ireland after being overthrown by the Anglo-Normans. Moving north through Ulster, the O’Cahans, in turn, drove out the O’Connors from the latter’s lands around Glengiven and ruled the region for over 400 years. John’s ancestor, Bloskey O’Keane slew Murtagh O’Loughlin, heir to the Irish throne in 1196, and briefly ruled all of Ireland, until he himself was slain in 1199 by a Macguire. The O’Cahans were second only to the O’Neills, and regularly took a prominent part in the inauguration of any new O’Neill chieftain, performing the ritual of throwing the golden slipper over O’Neill’s shoulder, symbolically pledging his and his people’s loyalty.

Grandmother Fionna had nodded off, lost in her dreams of the past. I looked across at my husband again and smiled. Oh, dear Lord, I thought, to have devotion like that. I silently prayed that my love for John and his for me would always be as strong as it was that day, and that nothing would ever come between us to steal that love away.

 

*************

 

“Are you ladies ready, yet?” Sir Thomas called impatiently from the yard. “The Fens will dry up and blow away before we get there.”

“Oh, Thomas, simmer down,” Lady Elizabeth answered him from the front door. “We’re coming right now.” She turned to stare at Mary, always late, rushing down the stairs, pulling on her straw hat. “Mary’s coming now.”

“That girl will be late to her own funeral,” Sir Thomas muttered, shaking his head at his procrastinating daughter.

“And her wedding—that is, if she ever has one,” William joked.

Mary, running through the front door, screwed up her face and stuck her tongue out at her brother. “That’s certainly the pot calling the kettle black. You’re not married either, older brother.”

Well, I will be soon, if Agnes ever makes up her mind. I asked her over a week ago, and she still hasn’t given me an answer.”

“You asked Agnes to marry you? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Lady Elizabeth asked, astonished. “What were you going to do, just spring it on me?”

“Now, Mother, don’t get in a tizzy,” William said, sheepishly, hanging his blond head. “I just didn’t want to jump the gun in case she refused.”

“She’ll not refuse you, brother,” John said, slapping him playfully on the back, as he carried the herb satchels through the door. “Why, she’s loved you since we were kids.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, are you that blind?” I asked, shocked that he hadn’t seen what all of us had for a long time.

“Well, time will tell,” William said, as we got underway.

We were heading out for the Fens again on an herb-gathering expedition. Sir Thomas would never let us go unaccompanied, due to the danger lurking in the area from brigands, cutthroats and other perils. There were stories of people who had entered its waters never to be seen again.

The people of the Fens were suspicious of those who ventured uninvited into their abode. Sir Thomas, however, was an old friend of many of the decent folk who populated the area. Each Christmas, the Keeneys undertook a benevolent venture, delivering clothing to the families and always including special treats for the many children the Fenlanders seemed to insist on having. Lady Elizabeth had personally delivered many, many babies in this reedy area of eastern England.

For hundreds of years the Fens were a vast area of marsh and scrub, rich in wildlife, which were prone to flooding from the North Sea on one side and rainwater on the other. Vast areas of high ground provided places for the indigenous residents to live, eking out a frugal living from the abundant fish and wildfowl. In the summer months, cattle grazed on lush vegetation common to the region. Monks found it a tranquil place and early on, they started monasteries and sustained themselves with a simple life of farming and fishing. Gradually, they acquired more land until they controlled vast quantities of fenland. Rents were paid to the monasteries for fishing and grazing rights. However, the monastic powers had been drastically reduced with the dissolution of the monasteries earlier in the century. As we were pulled along by the long oars and strong arms of our men, we could see other rough-bark boats occupied by the strange-looking Fenlander fishermen.

“They fish for bream, roach, pike and zander,” Sir Thomas said, when he noticed me staring at them. “I’ve spent a great deal of time with these people and have found them to be pleasant and easy to get along with.”

“I love their strawberries,” Lady Elizabeth said, wistfully. “There’s nothing like a Fen strawberry, so sweet and rich. Yum, yum, yum!”

“I just adore coming here,” Mary remarked, reflectively. “It’s a magical, mysterious place—so misty at times. Sometimes, I think I can see fairies dancing just above the reeds.”

“Those are butterflies, Mary,” William jibed. “There’s no such thing as fairies.”

“Grandmother Fionna believes in fairies,” Mary rebounded, sticking out her tongue.

“Grandmother is old—nearly a hundred. She can afford to believe in anything she wishes.” Mary’s tongue came out again at her brother’s remark.

“It’s a vanishing area,” Sir Thomas continued, shaking his head at his feuding children. “The King is on a reclamation mission here and has appointed the Earl of Bedford to supervise the draining of the Fens in the south and the silt Fens further north.”

“But, what will the Fenlanders do?” Mary asked. “They’re not going to take this lying down, are they? Aren’t they doing anything about it?”

“They’re protesting and putting up as much resistance as they can, for it threatens their livelihood. But, what can they ultimately do against the King?”

“Well, I think it’s just dreadful.”

“John Winkleman told me that his father was called upon to build the windmills to pump water off the land and into the rivers,” my husband noted. “But the King isn’t pleased with the slow progress. John said that the reliance on wind and the continued shrinkage of the land is making the task difficult. The King’s thinking of scrapping the entire plan.”

“I bet the Fenlanders would welcome that,” I said, smiling.

It wasn’t too long before we tied up at the dock in one of the many small villages that dotted the area. A cool, north wind promised snow before long. The leaves of the chestnut had already turned golden, the beeches were trees of flame, and the oaks seemed to be made from bronze. Winter was coming to England. The men maneuvered the small skiff near the shore. Just as we stepped up on the dock, a booming voice assailed us.

“Why, as I live and breathe, Thomas Keeney. How are you, man?”

The voice belonged to the most impossible-looking gentleman I had ever seen. The nearly seven-foot-tall chap towered over Sir Thomas, who stood well-defined at six feet four inches. The giant grabbed Sir Thomas in a bear-hug and picked him up off the ground. It was impossible to tell where the voice was coming from, for the man’s cheeks, chin and forehead were covered with what looked like warts (large, massive ones) that completely hid his mouth.

“Arthur!” Sir Thomas gasped, his face turning red. “Please, put me down. You’re squeezing the very life out of me!”

“Oh, sorry, man,” Arthur said, shamefaced, as he lowered Sir Thomas to the ground and fussed over his clothes. “Guess I don’t know my own strength sometimes. I’m sorry. Say, is this your family?” He looked at each of us in turn, smiling—I think.

“Yes. My wife, Elizabeth, my sons, William and John (you know them), my daughter, Mary and my new daughter-in-law, Sarah, John’s wife.”

“Well, congratulations to the happy couple. Nice to meet you all,” he said, pleasantly, reaching over to clap my husband soundly on the back, nearly knocking him over and into the murky water. John grabbed onto the railing of the pier and smiled back at the giant.

“What have you been up to, Arthur? I haven’t seen you in ages,” Sir Thomas said.

“Oh, I’ve been around. Fishing, mostly. Helping my friends stay one step ahead of the Crown’s attempts to ruin us. Funny, but a lot of the King’s sluices and pumps have been destroyed lately. There’s been many bonfires lighting up the night sky around here. Say, you’re all dressed kinda funny. What’s with all the dark clothes?”

“We’ve embraced the Puritan faith, Arthur.”

“Woo-eee!” he said, slapping his thigh with a ragged wool hat that had seen better days. “You’re going to be in trouble with the Crown, Thomas. The King doesn’t like Puritans. Course, he don’t cotton much to us Fenlanders, either.” He guffawed loudly, indicating just how unworried he actually was about the King’s displeasure with his rebellious subjects living in the reeds.

“Of that, I am fully aware, Arthur. But, you see, it’s about obeying the Lord. It wouldn’t hurt you to attend church now and then yourself, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve got neither occasion nor attention for such foolishness. Fishing takes up a lot of my time.” He appeared to be getting antsy, looking around. “Well, I got to go, now. My wife’s waiting for me. I’ll see you again soon, Thomas. Bring the family to the house soon, won’t you?” And with that, the funny-looking Fenlander was gone.

“He always runs away when I start talking about the Lord,” Sir Thomas said, solemnly shaking his head. “Still, he is a good and loyal friend. I hope someday he’ll be open to the Gospel.”

“Maybe he’s just not one of God’s elect,” John said, looking after the departing man.

“Could be,” my father-in-law mused. “Or maybe the Lord just isn’t ready to save him yet.”

After purchasing vegetables and fruits, and some good herb specimens from the locals, we began our return journey. As we glided through the reeds, talk centered on our various childhoods. I tried to join in as much as I could, but it’s difficult to speak of one’s life when all the trappings are beyond the comprehension of one’s listeners.

As the conversation went around, I noticed Lady Elizabeth thoughtfully staring into the dark, muddy waters, slowing trailing a beautifully manicured index finger through the weeds. She’s thinking of her mother again, I thought. It’s so sad, that she never hears from her.

Lady Elizabeth’s own childhood was anything but normal, and her unsanctioned marriage to a ‘commoner’ was regarded by her widowed mother as a rejection of her regard for her station in life. From the date of her elopement to Sir Thomas on May 31, 1600, Lady Anne Dacre considered her daughter, Elizabeth, dead and buried. Lady Anne, daughter of Thomas Dacre and Elizabeth Leyburne, was a noted philanthropist and skillful healer—characteristics and talents that had definitely passed through to her daughter. Lady Elizabeth Howard’s father, Philip, was born at Arundel House in London, in 1557, and was the grandson of Henry, Earl of Surrey, the poet, executed by Henry VIII in 1547. Philip, the eldest son of Thomas Howard, 4th Duke of Norfolk, by Mary Fitz Alan, daughter and heiress of Henry Fitz Alan, 18th Earl of Arundel, was baptized by the Archbishop of York in the Chapel of Whitehall Palace, and had Felipe II of Spain as one of his godfathers. Although Phillip was baptized as a Catholic, he was raised as a Protestant. His father, who had conformed to the state religion, educated him partly under John Foxe, the Protestant martyrologist, and he was afterwards sent to St. John’s College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1574. He was about eighteen when he attended Queen Elizabeth’s court.

His father married as his third wife, Elizabeth, widow of Thomas Dacre, Lord Dacre of Gillesland, who had matched her three daughters to his three sons. For years, Phillip was an indifferent Christian, neglectful of his faith. Phillip married Anne Dacre (his stepsister) when he was fourteen. Anne (Lady Elizabeth’s mother) was a woman of remarkable generosity and courage, and became, after her conversion to Catholicism, the patroness of Father Southwell and many other priests, eventually founding the novitiate of the Jesuits at Ghent.

Although Queen Elizabeth had executed his father, she oddly made Phillip one of her favorites. The son was dazzlingly handsome, highborn, and a good dancer, something of which the queen was overly fond. He was quick-witted and articulate, quickly becoming a wastrel at Elizabeth’s court, involved in many love affairs, refusing to set eyes on his young wife who waited patiently at Arundel House. With the death of his grandfather in 1580, Phillip succeeded to the Earldom of Arundel. He frequented the Court, entertained the Queen, and was restored in blood, in 1581, though not to his father’s dukedom. He neglected his wife and God, but the turning point came in 1581. Towards the close of the year he was present at a disputation in the Tower between a group of Catholic prisoners. This proved the first step in his conversion to the Catholic faith. These humble, suffering confessors awakened Phillip’s soul, and he returned to Arundel to ponder his reconciliation with the Church. Even during this period of dissipation, Phillip was extravagant in helping the poor and sick. His servants worshiped him because he treated every individual courteously.

About the same time as Campion’s famous defense of the faith, Anne Dacre and Phillip’s favorite sister, Margaret Sackville, was reconciled to the Church. Queen Elizabeth immediately banished Anne Dacre and placed her under house arrest in Surrey, where she gave birth to Lady Elizabeth, named in honor of the Queen, an obvious attempt to restore herself to the Queen’s good graces. (It didn’t work.) Phillip was imprisoned in the Tower for a short time. Upon his release, he, too, returned to the Catholic Church in 1584 with fervor and conscientiousness.

The change of life was soon noticed at Court. Phillip, seeing the Queen more and more averse and dangers thickening, resolved to escape across the English Channel to Flanders with his family (as his brother William had done before him), which they attempted in April, 1585, after composing a rather long and excellent letter of explanation to the Queen.

However, either a servant or the captain of the ship he had hired betrayed him, and Phillip and his small family were apprehended at sea. Again, on April 25, 1585, he was thrown into the Tower, where he was severely beaten and accused of treason for working with Mary, Queen of Scots. The charge was not provable, but he was fined 10,000 pounds and sentenced to imprisonment at the Queen’s pleasure. His last prayer to see his wife, daughter and only son, (who had been born after his imprisonment) went unanswered by the Queen, except on condition of his coming to the Protestant Church, at which time he might go free. He promptly refused to relinquish his faith.

At the time of the Spanish Armada in 1588 when anti-Catholicism swept the country, he was again accused of treason (though he was in the Tower of London at the time), tried again before the King’s Bench, and falsely charged with praying for a Spanish victory. Having been found guilty, accused of having said a Mass in support of the Spanish Armada, his sentence was to be hanged, drawn and quartered—a sentence that was never carried out. Thereafter began his long term of imprisonment, never knowing from day to day which sunset would be his last. Each day, he spent several hours in prayer and meditation; he was noted for his patience in suffering and courtesy to his unkind keepers. Weakened by malnutrition and not without suspicion of having been poisoned, he died on October 19, 1595. He was 39 years old and had spent the last eleven years of his life in the Tower of London.

On various occasions it was reported to his wife that the Earl was drinking in prison, that he’d had affairs with all kinds of loose women, and was entirely indifferent to religious concerns. Even when he was at the point of death in 1596, it was made a condition that he must renounce his faith if he wanted to see Anne and the children before he died. He steadfastly refused. He was buried in the same grave in the Tower Church that had received his father and grandfather.

A giggle from Mary brought my thoughts back to the present. John was reminiscing.

“William, do you remember when you scared old Mr. Willard half out of his wits?”

“Do I ever,” William replied, laughing.

My musings began to fade into the background. Mary remarked: “When William jumped out of the loft covered in hay, I thought the man was going to have apoplexy.”

“Yes, and Father punished me severely for it, too,” William added. “Memorizing the entire book of Matthew was worse than a caning.”

We all laughed at that, Lady Elizabeth noticeably brightening at the humorous memory, smiling at us all around the boat.

As the dock neared and the manor came into view, our day in the Fens came to an end—and a mighty curious day it had been.