Sons of an Ancient Glory (11 page)

Tierney stiffened, then deliberately lifted his splinted arm, gasping at the pain the movement caused him. He aimed the crude, sharp edge of the makeshift splint at the guard's neck—and shoved it directly into the center of the angry red boil. The guard screamed out in agony, clutching his neck as he fell to the floor.

In spite of the hatred and anger pulsing through him, Tierney winced at the man's agony. Turning back to Rankin and Jan Martova, he saw that the other guard had been temporarily stopped by Boiler Bill's scream of pain. Knife in hand, Rankin stood gaping at his cohort, now a whimpering heap on the floor of the cell.

Tierney hurled himself at him with a roar, his good hand outstretched to seize the knife from the guard's hand.

Raising the knife as if to throw it, Rankin exploded in a savage roar.

“Stop!”

At the rumbling shout behind him, Tierney whirled around, Rankin momentarily forgotten.

“Drop the knife! Now!
”

Just inside the open doorway of the cell sat a fiery-eyed, copper-haired giant in a wheelchair, holding a pistol on Rankin. Behind him stood a big black man in a purple shirt and a seaman's cap.

Lifting the gun, the big man in the wheelchair growled out his warning once more.
“I said…drop the knife!”

This time Rankin obeyed.

The piercing green eyes of the man in the wheelchair drilled the guard another instant before turning their full force on Tierney.

An involuntary shiver skated down the boy's spine. He swallowed hard, then again. For a moment, he felt his eyes riveted to the blanket-draped, lifeless legs of the man who sat glaring at him. Finally, he dragged his gaze upward, to the gun, then to the bronze-bearded face, flushed with obvious anger.

The man sat, his back rigidly straight, one large hand holding the gun perfectly level, the other gripping the arm of the wheelchair. Feeling himself seared by the look of incredulous fury in the big man's gaze, Tierney had to force himself to stare back.

He knew who the giant was, of course. Although his appearance was unexpected, their surroundings unlikely, he recognized Morgan Fitzgerald at once.

Before him was the hero of his boyhood imagination, the subject of countless stories his father had related over the years about the old friend of his childhood: stories of boyhood pranks and young men's daredevil antics and, later, wondrous tales of the roving rebel-poet who had assumed almost legendary proportions in Tierney's mind.

The man's presence, even confined to a wheelchair, was compelling. He had the bearing of a monarch, an ancient chieftain, a warrior prince. The strength that emanated from him seemed to fill the small, mean cell with a humming energy.

For as long as Tierney could remember, he had idolized this man, had yearned for the day he would finally meet him face-to-face, this giant who seemed to embody so many of his own grand hopes and ideals. But even though he had been aware of the injury that had paralyzed the man, seeing the grim evidence in front of his own eyes struck him like a blow.

It occurred to him that the dread wheelchair was but another kind of cell, a prison from which there could be no release. For a moment, an inexplicable wave of bitter disappointment washed over Tierney: disappointment and outrage that a man like Morgan Fitzgerald should be forced to suffer such an atrocity.

The dark images passed, leaving him shaken and somewhat stunned at the realization that he was actually standing in a Dublin prison cell, in the presence of Fitzgerald himself. Humiliation was an exceedingly rare, almost alien feeling to Tierney. But at this instant, he felt himself to be humiliated. That his first encounter with the man who had inspired him since his childhood should be a crude scrambling in the middle of a dank, filthy cell made him feel small and insignificant and altogether foolish.

The hard green gaze went over him, raking him thoroughly in one sweep. “If you are quite finished with maiming your warders, perhaps you would be good enough to confirm what I already suspect: that you are Tierney Burke, son of Michael.”

The voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, its distinctly Irish cadence held a touch of quiet refinement. Yet, Tierney sensed an underlying power that, if unleashed, could shake the very walls of the prison. Growing more miserable by the moment, he forced himself to meet the big man's eyes with far more confidence than he felt. “I am, sir. I am Tierney Burke.”

The great copper head gave one brusque nod. For a second or two, Tierney could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in that steady green gaze, and the thought made him bristle with anger.

But when Morgan Fitzgerald spoke, his tone was dry, his words clipped. “Aye, somehow I thought as much.”

For a moment, Morgan was seized with the unnerving sensation that he had been catapulted back in time twenty years. The slender, lean-faced youth standing, legs spread, in the middle of the cell, looked so much like his father that Morgan almost voiced his old friend's name…

Michael
…

The same proud, unyielding jaw, evident despite a growth of black beard. The thick dark hair. The familiar glint of confidence in the eye. The well-set wide shoulders. The roguish good looks, marred only by an angry white scar that slashed over his left eye. Morgan thought he could have picked the lad out of a crowd of thousands.

Suddenly caught up in a fierce yearning for the friend of his youth, it was all he could do not to throw open his arms and embrace the boy. Instead, he darted a cursory glance at the slavering guard, collapsed in a heap on the floor, then the other, upon whom he still held a gun. At last his eyes went to the unconscious boy near the wall.

“That would be the Gypsy—the cousin of the lad who brought your message?” he asked, now turning his attention back to Tierney

“Yes—he…it was his idea to write the note…he said one of his people would deliver it, but in truth I didn't really hope.”

The boy let his words drift off, unfinished. Morgan noted his obvious discomfort and decided it was more than likely a rare feeling for the young rascal.

Sandemon had gone to the Gypsy boy on the floor and was down on his knees, examining him. “He is unconscious,” he said, looking up, “but not badly hurt, I think.”

Morgan nodded. “What exactly is all this about? The cell door standing open, you fighting with your gaolers—”

“They charged in here and began to beat on us!” The boy's mouth thinned to a hard, indignant line. “They were furious because we got a message to the outside!”

“You're fortunate it didn't go worse for you! I doubt that you've any idea the kind of thugs you're dealing with in a place like this.”

“Oh, I think I do,” the boy grated, pointedly glancing at the arm encased in a grimy sling. “This came about, for example, because I demanded some clean drinking water.”

Morgan grimaced. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I am not unacquainted with the penal system myself.” He studied the boy for a moment. “You have been released into my custody. I trust you will give me no cause for regret.”

The boy flushed, and—ah, yes…there it was again, that arrogant toss of the head, the defiant flare of the nostrils. Like a young and spirited thoroughbred.

So like his father…like Michael…

“I can explain all this, sir.”

“No doubt,” Morgan said. “And I am sure I will be altogether fascinated by your explanation. But that will have to wait, I fear. The first order of business is to get you out of here.”

He turned to Sandemon, who had come to stand near the door again. The black man's expression was impassive, but Morgan knew him well enough to recognize the disapproval and guarded curiosity in his eyes.

“Find the chief warder. Tell him we need a physician at once.” He stopped. “Make sure he knows he has guards who need attention, not only a prisoner. Then I shall speak with the governor again before we leave for home.”

“Sir?”

Morgan turned back to Tierney Burke, who motioned toward the Gypsy youth, still lying on the floor.

“Can't we take him with us? Please. I owe him, you see.”

Morgan stared at him. “Impossible! The boy is a total stranger to you. A prisoner.” He paused. “And a Gypsy.”

The blue eyes flashed. “He's a friend! He opened a vein for me! I won't leave him here like this. They'll murder him.”

Morgan considered him, feeling an odd sort of approval for his heated outburst. So, then, it would seem there was even more of his father in him than mere good looks. Loyalty and a keen sense of fairness had always been strong in Michael.

Sandemon had stopped just outside the doorway and stood watching them. Morgan met his gaze and saw the troubled look, the doubt there.

Turning back to Tierney, he said, “One can't simply take a Gypsy off as he pleases. We might very well bring the wrath of the whole tribe on Nelson Hall. His people would not take kindly to our interference.”

“Our interference would surely be preferable to leaving him here to be slaughtered! You
know
what they will do to him. He pulled a knife on the guards!”

He was right, of course. The boy was as good as dead if they left him. Gypsies were mere animals to bullies like these—of no consequence whatever. Indeed, most of the population despised the Romany, bitterly resented their numbers in the city.

But even if he were willing to take the boy to Nelson Hall, he couldn't just whisk him out of gaol! “I have no legal right to take him away,” he said, frowning.

“How did you get
me
released?” Tierney Burke countered.

Morgan gave a grim smile. “You might say that I combined my deceased grandfather's influence with a generous donation to the penal system,” he answered dryly.

The boy needn't know that it had been an out-and-out bribe, coupled with a veiled threat. “I did promise your father that I would assume responsibility for you, you see.”

“I don't
need
anyone to assume responsibility for me,” Tierney Burke said evenly. “I am seventeen years old.”

“And I am much older,” Morgan said just as evenly, “and, we will hope, a good deal wiser. Now, then, what do you know about this Gypsy?” He motioned toward the boy, still unconscious on the floor.

“Only that he freed a horse from two soldiers who were caning it,” the boy replied. “And that he was willing to write a message in his own blood to help a stranger.”

Those disconcerting blue eyes fastened on Morgan's face in a look of undisguised challenge.

Relenting, Morgan sighed. “I will see what I can do,” he said wearily. “But if we all end up murdered in our beds by a band of Gypsies, let it be on your head, and not mine.”

King of stars,
Dark or bright my house may be,
But I close my door on none
Lest Christ close his door on me.

E
ARLY
I
RISH

P
eering through a crack in the kitchen door, Annie Fitzgerald and Fergus the wolfhound were having a close-up look at not
one
new boy, as had been expected, but
two
—one of whom was a
Gypsy
! A
real
Gypsy, not just an ordinary tinker or one of the traveling people who affected to call themselves Gypsies—but a real-life
Romany
Gypsy!