Sons of an Ancient Glory (9 page)

“Rom?”

“Romany. My people are Romany Gypsies.”

They fell silent for another moment. Tierney was intrigued by his cellmate, somewhat taken aback by his almost refined speech and courteous demeanor.

“I hope your offense is not grave,” the Gypsy finally said.

Tierney uttered a grunt of scorn. “My
offense
,” he bit out, “was to try and set two drunken sailors off a wee, scrawny lad before they killed him! They claimed he picked their pockets.” Twisting his mouth into a semblance of a smile, he added, “And he probably did. But I could see he was half-starved. I wasn't about to let them murder him for being hungry! Unfortunately, one of their pals called the police on me. They socked me in jail and took the boy off somewhere else.”

The Gypsy nodded, as if Tierney's tale were a familiar one. “Not exactly the best of welcomes. Do you have anyone in the city who will be anxious for you? Anyone who could help?”

“I was on my way to find my father's old friend. I'm supposed to be staying with him, at his estate just outside Dublin.”

He twisted sideways, and a sharp, searing pain shot along his tender ribs, making him catch his breath. At the same time, a different kind of pain gripped him, a pain made of resentment and frustration at the mess he'd gotten himself into. After all these years, he had finally achieved his dream of seeing Ireland, only to have it ripped away before he was scarcely off the docks!

“Your father's friend has an estate? He must be a wealthy man.”

Immediately Tierney's guard went up. The Gypsies were notorious for swindling and robbing the rich. “It might not be an estate exactly,” he hedged. “I think the place belonged to his grandfather.”

Jan Martova regarded Tierney with a studying look. “And does your father's friend know what has happened to you? That you are here?”

Tierney shook his head, still smarting from the reminder of his foiled plans. “I've had no way to get word to him.”

The Gypsy nodded, saying nothing. Turning, he crossed the cell, the heels of his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. For a moment he stood staring at the mean excuse for a bed. With a look of distaste, he remained standing.

Scraping at the floor with the toe of his boot, he seemed to consider his words carefully. “I might be able to help you,” he said. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to get a message to your father's friend. If he's wealthy, he must have influence. Perhaps enough influence to get you out of here.”

Tierney heard the undertone of a bargain in the making, but he was unable to bank the fires of interest that rose at the Gypsy's suggestion. “And just how could you manage that?” he asked warily. “It seems to me that you're locked up as tight as I am.”

The Gypsy's answering smile was cryptic. “But my people are not. One of my cousins is out there somewhere, right now, keeping watch,” he said, gesturing toward the high, narrow window. “He will be acting as lookout for my older brother, in order that no undue harm might come to me. It would be a small matter to pass a message outside and have it delivered.”

He stopped, rubbing his fingertips along his chin. “But it would have to be a
written
message. Your wealthy benefactor is not likely to believe the word of a Gypsy.”

Tierney didn't miss the barbed edge in the other's tone. Nor did he give any further thought about bringing trouble on Morgan Fitzgerald. If there were any chance, even the slightest, of getting out of this hellhole, he'd be a fool not to take it!

“What is his name, your father's friend?” asked the Gypsy.

Tierney hesitated only an instant. “Fitzgerald. Morgan Fitzgerald.”

Jan Martova looked at him. “The one they call the
Seanchai
? The great poet in the wheelchair?”

“You know him?”

The Gypsy shook his head. “Only the stories I have heard. Morgan Fitzgerald is a man of much controversy—and great respect.”

Tierney would not be distracted from his purpose. “What would you expect,” he asked bluntly, “in return for helping me?”

Jan Martova gave a small gesture with one hand, then smiled. “Perhaps I might hope the great
Seanchai
would help me as well. I've been here before, you see, and I don't like the place any better than you do.”

Tierney would have promised him Ireland itself if it meant a way out of this foul-smelling hole! “You said a written message. Where am I to find pen and paper in
here
?”

Still stroking his chin, the Gypsy said nothing. Suddenly, he caught the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow and began tugging at it until a piece of the material ripped free. Dangling it from his fingers, he motioned toward Tierney's broken arm and said, “This will serve as your paper. But I hope that is not your writing hand.”

Tierney glanced over the makeshift splint. “It is,” he muttered. “You'll have to do the writing.”

Jan Martova gave him a long, steady look. “I'm afraid I cannot. You must manage with your other hand.”

It took Tierney a minute, but he finally realized his mistake. He remembered his father telling him that most Gypsies could neither read nor write, that they refused to send their children to school, and so each generation continued to grow up illiterate.

Embarrassed, Tierney nodded curtly. “I'll manage.” Pushing himself up from the bed, he stood watching in bewilderment as the Gypsy went to the cot on the other side of the cell and, dropping down on his knees, began to search underneath and at the sides. At last he stopped, his face breaking into a wide smile. He got to his feet, holding up a nail for Tierney's inspection. “And this,” he said, still smiling, “will be your pen.”

Tierney stared at him.

“We will need ink, of course,” said Jan Martova, clearly undaunted.

It struck Tierney that, not only had he gotten himself mixed up with a Gypsy, but a
daft
Gypsy at that. “And where,” he asked impatiently, “do you propose to find
ink
?”

The dark eyes took on a glint. “Blood,” replied the Gypsy, withdrawing a small knife from inside the heel of his boot. “Blood will do the job very nicely, I think.”

“Blood?”
Tierney echoed incredulously, braced to defend himself in case this crazy Gypsy made a move toward him.

Jan Martova grinned. “Blood,” he said again. “Don't worry, Yankee-Boy,” he added. “We will use
Gypsy
blood. I have plenty.”

Those we love truly never die.…
The blessed sweetness of a loving breath
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.

J
OHN
B
OYLE
O' R
EILLY
(1844-1890)

I
n the library, Morgan poked the logs in the great stone fireplace back to life, scowling at the unseasonable cold that seemed to permeate the house.

Wheeling himself back to his desk, he idly shuffled through some papers for a moment, then slumped back in the wheelchair.

He was heartsore and bone-weary, but it was not late enough to retire. He had enough trouble sleeping as it was, spending most of the early nighttime hours with his nose in a book, until his eyes and his mind grew numb with fatigue. Since the news about Little Tom had come, even those precious few hours when he normally slept were often interrupted with painful memories and unsettling dreams.

He was greatly concerned for his niece, Johanna—the last remaining member of his brother's family. Poor lass, she had more than her share of misfortune as it was, what with not being able to hear or speak. Her baby brother had been like a gift from heaven to her. From the beginning, she had doted on him like a little mother, caring for him, playing with him, hovering over him. What might the loss of wee Tom do to her?

He sighed, wiping the dampness in his eyes with his sleeve as he sank even farther back in the wheelchair.

To take his mind off Little Tom, Morgan deliberately turned his thoughts toward Tierney Burke. The lad should have showed up long before now.

Michael's letter about his son's troubles and his passage to Ireland had come more than a week past. Ever since, Sandemon had been going to the docks daily in anticipation of the boy's arrival. Then, just this past Friday he had learned that the ship had actually put in more than two weeks ago. Yet Tierney Burke was nowhere to be found.

Upon receiving Michael's letter with the news that his son would be coming to Ireland, Morgan had felt a mixture of eagerness and uncertainty. While he looked forward to meeting the son of his oldest friend, he could not help but wonder what sort of problems Tierney Burke might bring to Nelson Hall.

Michael had been characteristically candid in his letters about the conflict between him and his son, occasioned—at least according to Michael—by the boy's rebellious, hotheaded temperament. Throughout the years of their correspondence, Morgan had been unable to ignore the apparent similarities between Tierney Burke and
himself
. As a youth, he, too, had been frowned upon as being factious and rebellious. When they were boys back in Killala, Michael had often—and only partly in jest—accused him of chasing trouble as a hound did a hare.

Morgan smiled faintly at the thought. What a bitter irony for the practical, sensible, reliable Michael to have a son who was apparently a mix of quicksilver and fire—much like the friend he had always found so exasperating.

Imagining Michael's frustration and pain, Morgan realized that
there
lay the difference between him and young Tierney Burke. His own father had been little troubled by Morgan's rebellious ways. Aidan Fitzgerald's fatherhood had been almost entirely characterized, if not by actual indifference, at the least by a kind of lethargy—even when sober, which was not often the case. Except in the area of education, Morgan and his older brother, Thomas, had virtually reared themselves. Their father's lack of interest had allowed them an excessive amount of freedom while growing up, a freedom keenly envied by other youths in the village.

Perhaps it was his own careless upbringing—as well as Michael's faithfulness as a friend—that now made Morgan so determined to do his best by Tierney Burke, to provide the boy a home and whatever guidance he might allow. In time, he hoped they might even become friends.

Unhappily, he seemed to have failed in his good intentions before ever laying eyes on the lad!

He dragged his hands down both sides of his beard, closing his eyes for a moment against the dull ache that had set in along his temples.

“Morgan?”

He looked up to see Finola standing just inside the doorway. As always, his heart warmed at the sight of her. Straightening in the chair, he motioned for her to enter. “Did you grow tired of the sewing?”

She shook her head, giving a shy smile as she came the rest of the way into the room. “Actually, I came…to see about you,” she answered, her voice soft. “Are you thinking of your nephew tonight, Morgan?”

He nodded. It was almost unnerving, the way she always seemed so in tune with his thoughts. “Aye, I am. I cannot seem to think of much else. Except for the whereabouts of Michael's son, that is. I'm growing more than a little concerned for the boy.”

He wheeled himself out from behind the desk, stopping to draw the heavy, rose-colored drapes against the darkness. “Come, sit with me,” he said, gesturing toward the fireplace, “although I know I'm poor company.”

He watched her settle herself carefully into the large fireside chair. He loved the way Finola moved. In spite of the fact that she was growing heavy with child, her every movement, every gesture, was as graceful as a waterfall.

Her flaxen hair fell in a heavy braid over her shoulder. In her honey-colored gown, her fair skin glowing in the firelight, she appeared golden and fragile and exquisitely lovely.

“There has been no word, then, about Tierney Burke?”

“None,” Morgan said, dragging his eyes away from her and looking into the fire. “Perhaps I should have expected the ship sooner. One of the importer's clerks told Sandemon it was a new vessel, one of the Farmington packets—and a great deal faster than most of its predecessors.”