Chapter 154

“You cannot accept their proposal, My Lord! Just a little more, and we can end this war on our own terms!”

“Nonsense! This is our greatest chance to conclude the fighting. Look at the conditions—this is practically a victory. Autonomy, religious freedom… nearly everything we fought for is within our grasp!”

Earl O’Neill, the leader of the Irish forces, stood amidst a tempest of discord as his subordinates clashed over the English proposal. While some argued for a desperate holdout until absolute independence was won, others maintained that accepting these terms was, in itself, the fulfillment of their long-sought sovereignty.

It’s an absurd proposal, O’Neill thought, his mind heavy with the weight of the decision. He knew that the moment he accepted, critics would brand him a traitorous spy who had sold out to England, despite his years of leading the resistance. Simultaneously, Spain might denounce him as a heretical betrayer of the Catholic faith for abandoning the alliance to kneel before a ‘witch,’ regardless of the religious freedom he had secured.

The trap lay in the utter unpredictability of what would follow; perhaps even the Queen, who had set the snare, could not foresee the results. He was about to embark on a path of briars, where the crown he would wear would be woven of thorns rather than gold.

The following day, Earl O’Neill returned to the neutral meeting ground. After politely escorting Elizabeth away from the prying eyes of their retinues, he spoke with a voice weary from the burden of command. “It has been twenty years, Your Majesty.”

“…”

“For two decades, the soil of this island has gorged itself on the blood of free men,” O’Neill said, gesturing toward a desolate corner of the clearing where the charred remains of a cottage stood as a silent witness. “I cannot even recall how many battles have been fought here, but one thing is certain: people once lived in that house. Where are they now? Dead, most likely—the direct result of English oppression.”

“And so?” Elizabeth asked, her tone unreadable. “Do you seek absolute independence because you cannot forgive those grudges?”

O’Neill shook his head. “I value the blood yet to be shed far more than the blood already spilled. However, I cannot allow those who have already fallen to be forgotten. If I am to accept this treaty, you must promise me one thing.”

“Speak,” the Queen commanded.

“You killed them,” O’Neill said, his eyes reddening as they met the fierce, crimson light of the rising sun. “Do not forget the countless souls you have extinguished. This peace is not a mercy you have bestowed; it is a victory we have wrested away at the cost of oceans of blood. It matters not to me how you and King James check one another, or how you intend to slight Spain. You have your own ends, but we have paid the price in full with our lives. Do not forget them.”

It was a sentimental speech for a commander, but at that moment, O’Neill could be nothing else. Elizabeth offered a bitter, weary smile as she accepted the terms. The struggle that had defined the last twenty years finally came to an end.

Ireland had secured its freedom. As the news of the accord rippled across the island, the Irish people accepted the strange “Triple Monarchy” with surprising ease. Their psychological resistance to Elizabeth was tempered by the memory of her past relief efforts and a growing resentment toward the foreign Spanish troops who had been living off the land for far too long.

Almost overnight, the Spanish forces found themselves transformed from allies into enemies. Harassed by the newly autonomous Irish alliance and plagued by populist uprisings and looting, the Spaniards were forced into a disastrous retreat. Their ships, once safe in Irish harbors, were seized as abandoned prizes. Spain could only watch in agony as they were unceremoniously expelled from the island while all of Europe observed their humiliation.

The shockwaves of the Spanish defeat began to rattle the continent, reaching as far as the Palatinate.

***

“Did you hear? The Spaniards have been decimated in Ireland and are in full retreat! My father-in-law is triumphant!” Frederick V, the Prince-Elector, shouted with glee after hearing the news from his wife, Elizabeth Stuart.

“Shh! My father isn’t exactly pleased,” she whispered. “He considers the Queen of England’s unilateral decision an affront.”

“But Ireland was practically lost anyway, wasn’t it? He should be grateful she handled the mess for him!”

Frederick couldn’t have cared less about King James’s wounded pride. He wasn’t the one inheriting the Irish throne, after all. What mattered to him was the simple, glorious fact that the Catholic forces were fleeing with their tails between their legs.

As one of the seven Prince-Electors with the power to choose the Holy Roman Emperor, and as the preeminent representative of the Calvinists within the Empire, the high-spirited teenager felt as if the world was moving to accommodate his every whim. Married to the Scottish princess only the year before, he saw no need to understand the intricate politics of the British Isles when the results were so favorable.

“Look at them, my lady! The Spanish Catholics are scurrying away from your father’s territory like rats! That is all that matters!”

The Habsburgs and their Catholic armies had tasted defeat once again. First, the Emperor of the New World had derailed them; now, England had shattered their ambitions. It would be a long time before they could regroup and recover their lost funds.

If Nemo were asked about Frederick, he might have struggled to place the name, yet the young Elector was a major beneficiary of Virginia’s rise. Spain’s repeated losses to an England bolstered by Virginia’s trade had allowed Henri IV to purge pro-Spanish factions in France. Burdened by soaring war costs, Spain had been forced into a truce with the Netherlands even as their war with England continued.

In this altered timeline, where England and France rose as Spain withered, Frederick enjoyed the tangible and intangible support of his father-in-law, James. Henri IV, too, provided aid to the French-educated Frederick, primarily by supplying luxury goods from Virginia at a fraction of their market price. By reselling these items to neighboring lords, Frederick amassed a fortune, which he used to fund his lavish lifestyle and expand his influence, further supported by the wealthy Dutch Calvinists.

“When we have grown strong enough, even the Habsburgs won’t dare look down on us!” he boasted.

“Please, watch your tongue…” his wife cautioned.

“What is there to fear? Fate is on our side! I only say such things within these walls, of course!”

But his overflowing confidence was impossible to contain. His extravagance and blatant posturing eventually caught the eye of the newly crowned Emperor Matthias. However, Matthias, wary of appearing to persecute Protestants and relying on Bohemian support, left the young Elector to his own devices for the time being.

But Matthias was old, and his days were numbered. A new Emperor would eventually take the throne, and the fuse on the European time bomb was burning short.

***

“In France, Henri IV is holding up the Irish treaty as a model for religious freedom and national peace,” Raleigh reported, and I nodded in understanding. I had a clear picture of the chaos unfolding in Europe, especially the British Isles, but it was no longer my concern.

“Thank you, Walter. You may head back now.”

“Of course. And the Queen…?”

“She isn’t well,” I admitted.

Even in the twenty-first century, an eighty-year-old traveler would be exhausted by a trans-Atlantic trip. In this era, it meant being cramped between wooden planks for months on end. Her body was bound to be failing her, yet she had sent for me the moment she arrived, insisting on a private audience. I had no choice but to honor her iron will.

I was at the Queen’s residence on Roanoke Island—a large wooden house that, while modest for a monarch, was as grand as the current infrastructure allowed. I knocked, and an attendant led me through a short hallway to the innermost room.

I fought to keep my expression neutral as I entered. Elizabeth was lying in bed, and her eyes lacked the fierce, energetic spark I had come to associate with her. She looked listless, a word I never thought I would apply to her. It was as if she had become a different person in the few months she’d been away.

As I took a seat, Margaret, who had been nursing her, gave me a small nod and slipped out of the room, leaving us alone.

“It has been a while,” I said.

Elizabeth struggled to sit up, forcing a bit of strength into her drowsy eyes until she looked somewhat like her old self. She gestured toward a cup of freshly brewed coffee that had been set out for me.

I took a sip. “Why did you do it?”

The question lacked a subject or object, but she understood. “I told you… I was bored.” Her dry lips moved like those of a gasping fish.

“Boredom means having nothing left to do,” she continued before I could press her further. “With this old body, I can no longer bowl, and hunting or fishing has become too much of a chore. So, I did this instead.”

I began to understand her reasoning, but I wanted to hear the truth from her own lips. “And what was that ‘promise’ you mentioned?”

Raleigh had told me that before she left, she had muttered something about fulfilling a promise to the ‘angel.’

At my question, a final spark flickered in her eyes. She sat up straighter, leaning against the headboard as she focused her gaze on me. “Ah, finally, the question I’ve been waiting for.”

She gave me a thin smile. She had always moved with an insatiable hunger for life, her will burning like a flame. But now, as I looked at her, I realized that the flame was finally guttering out. It was the natural fate for an eighty-year-old woman.

Elizabeth’s time had come. She was dying.