Dark of the Moon (50 page)

"Ahem—children. We've not much time," Father Patrick said as the door shut behind him, leaving the three of them alone. "I assume you have the matter, er, resolved to your satisfaction?"

Connor nodded. " 'Twas my mistake, Father. The babe is mine. It could not be otherwise."

He caught Caitlyn's hand, pulled her close. She rested her head against his chest like a tired child. He kissed the cowl, then pulled it back and kissed the top of her head.

"I take it you are prepared to wed us? Here and now?"

Father Patrick nodded. "I am, my son."

"Then please do so, but first—" Connor looked at Caitlyn, his eyes tender, his voice gentle.

"Will you do me die honor of becoming my wife?" he asked.

"Aye, I will," she answered with love shining in her eyes.

In moments Father Patrick was reciting the words that would unite them, while she leaned against Connor and clutched his hand. They were wed like that, in the middle of the night in a freezing cell in Kilmainham Gaol, with the soft murmurings of a priest washing over them and their hearts filled with love and the fear of imminent loss. When Connor lifted his head from the traditional kiss with which he claimed her as his wife, Caitlyn clung to him and burst into tears again. It seemed she had cried more in the past hour than she ever had before in her life.

"Caitlyn, lassie, 'tis sorry I am to remind you, but I must have a word or two with Connor before . . . We've not much time remaining."

Caitlyn trembled, clutching Connor closer. Father Patrick's words struck terror clear to her heart. Soon she would have to leave him, possibly never to see him again. . . .

"Don't weep, my own; it might harm the babe," Connor said in her ear. When she looked up, startled at the proprietary tone in which he spoke of what was no more than a tiny bud of life buried deep inside her, he kissed her, brief and hard. Then he put her away from him. Swaying slightly, she nevertheless stood on her own two feet as she drew her hands over her cheeks, wiping away the wetness left by her tears.

"You'll see her safe away, Father? I'd not have her watch . . ."He could not put the thought of his grisly end into words, not with Caitlyn standing right there beside him, heart in her eyes as she listened to his every word.

"Should it come to that, you may be sure I'll get her away. But it may not come to that. 'Tis what else I have to tell you. There's a chance ..." And Father Patrick went on to detail what he hoped would come to pass on the morrow. When he had finished, Connor's eyes were bright with hope, and his hand was wrapped tightly around Caitlyn's.

"Father, if this works, I will personally travel to Rome and petition the Holy See for your canonization." A crooked smile at Father Patrick was so familiar that it near stopped Caitlyn's heart. The scheme had to work. She could not live in this world without Connor.

"Remember the signal; 'twill be the cannon."

"Aye, I have it. I'll be ready."

"In that case, my son, we'd best be on to other things. Caitlyn, forgive me for the suggestion, but should things not fall as they should tomorrow, you will want Connor to be prepared. 'Tis a precaution, you understand, no more."

Though Caitlyn looked blank, Connor nodded, his hand tightening on hers before he released her. "I must admit 'twould comfort me to mount the scaffold knowing myself at peace with God."

"Then let us begin, my son."

Caitlyn, understanding at last, moved to a corner of the cell to give them privacy. Connor knelt and made his confession. Then Father Patrick recited the service for the dying over him.

The familiar sound of the last rites struck deep into Caitlyn's soul. Closing her eyes tightly, she prayed with all her might that Connor would be spared. She knew just how chancy were the plans for his rescue, but surely God could work a miracle one more time.

It was done quickly, the words a soft patter against the muted background of prison noises.

When it was over, Connor got to his feet.

"Thank you, Father."

"I've something for you, my son. 'Tis yours, I think, and your father's and grandfather's before you."

Caitlyn crossed to Connor's side and was enfolded against him by a hard arm as Father Patrick reached beneath his robe and pulled out an intricately wrought Irish Cross that dangled from a silver chain. Connor stared at it, then held out his hand. Father Patrick laid the medallion in his palm. Connor's fist closed slowly around it. For a moment he held the cross tightly, looking down at his clenched fist. Then he opened his hand, brought the cross to his lips, kissed it, and slipped the chain around his neck. The medallion gleamed brightly in the candlelight, its magnificence at odds with his tattered finery and unshaven jaw.

"You shall live or die as the Dark Horseman, beloved by all true Irishmen, and in your true faith," Father Patrick said, as if in benediction. "Whatever comes to you tomorrow, take comfort from that."

"Whatever happens, I am grateful for all you've done. Now, what of my brothers? And Mickeen?'

"All fine." Father Patrick shook his head. "Though they are wild with worry for you, of course. Still, I have them convinced of the need for caution, I think."

"Give them my love. Tell them—if aught goes wrong tomorrow and I in truth pass from this life—tell them that my last request of diem was that they care for Caitlyn and the babe."

"Connor ..." Caitlyn pressed closer against him, shuddering as her arms slipped around his waist. He bent his head to touch his lips to her hair even as the sound of a key sliding into the lock galvanized them all.

"Take care of yourself, wife, and our babe," Connor whispered in her ear as he put her from him.

She just had time to mouth "I love you" before the guard was opening the door. It was Connor who had the presence of mind to pull the cowl back over her head. When the guard got the door open, he saw nothing but two priests comforting a condemned man.

"Time," he said sourly, reaching for the candle. Caitlyn looked at Connor, tears brimming in her eyes. He smiled at her. Father Patrick made the sign of the cross again, said, "Be of stout heart, my son," and, putting his hand on Caitlyn's shoulder, half pushed and half led her from the cell.

Outside the prison, Caitlyn was half blinded by tears. She clutched Father Patrick's arm as the priest hurried her along toward where their horses had been stabled at a nearby inn. The night was dark and moonless, and Caitlyn reckoned it lacked two hours yet of dawn. Drunken revels were taking place in the street around the prison even at this wee hour of the morn.

With so much activity going on, she paid no attention as a closed carriage rumbled down the street toward them. Only when it stopped did she look up. Two men leaped from the inside, brandishing clubs. Father Patrick stopped short, thrusting Caitlyn behind him.

"In the name of God, begone!" he thundered. "We've naught for you, naught worth robbing!"

" 'Tis not your valuables we're after, ye bloody idolater! We've come for the wench. Hand her over, or we'll split your skull for ye, priest or no!"

"Ye may try!" Father Patrick roared, and lunged at one of the men as he bellowed at Caitlyn to run. But there was no time. The second of the men brought his club down on Father Patrick's head with a sound like a melon splitting. Father Patrick dropped to the street like a fallen tree.

Caitlyn, on the verge of flying to his defense, looked up at the men advancing on her and turned to run. She got about two feet before one of them caught her by the flapping tail of the too-big priest's robe and jerked her off her feet.

"Hold her, now! Ouch, watch out, she bites! Get her in the bloody carriage, mate, and quick!"

Caitlyn screamed and fought, but they were big, burly men and she had to have a care for the babe inside her. The drunken revelers camped in front of the prison barely paused in their merrymaking to watch. Such scenes were all too common in Dublin. Until one of them noticed that the man lying unconscious on the ground was a priest. . . .

"Eh, look there, they've bashed a Holy Father, bloody Protestant dogs!"

"A priest? They've harmed a priest? Let's be at them!" The clumsy charge of rescuers came too late. Caitlyn was bundled inside the coach as the drunken gladiators rushed across the road.

She heard an outcry, and the sounds of battle, and assumed the two men who had attacked her were themselves under attack. For whatever reason, they were left behind as the coach lurched forward. She fell heavily, hitting her head against the floor. Someone caught her, held her arms.

Someone else leaned over her, pressing a foul-smelling rag over her face. Even as she fought for her life, she looked up and saw the face of the man who would suffocate her. She recoiled with horror. It was Sir Edward Dunne!

And then she lost all consciousness.

The streets were lined with armed Volunteers. Behind them, ragged peasants craned their necks and jostled for position with better-dressed shopkeepers and lawyers and doctors. Above street level, the windows were packed with spectators. Ladies waved handkerchiefs, serving maids their feather dusters and bare hands. Grenadiers carrying Irish battle-axes marched behind the open cart in which Connor rode. Drummers pounding out a deafening rhythm on their huge kettledrums strode ahead. Here and there Straw Boys with green scarves tied around the ends of their shillelaghs broke through the ranks of the stolid Volunteers to yell Gaelic words of encouragement and wave their embellished staffs. More often than not, the outraged Volunteers rewarded their efforts with a split head.

Heavy artillery had been broken out for the occasion. It rolled with an escort of mounted dragoons behind the Grenadiers, the guns decked out incongruously in multicolored ribbons.

Farther back came a band of Calvinists, who marched under a banner stating: "Open thou our mouths, O Lord, and our lips shall sing forth thy praise." A line of flutists was followed by a quartet of bagpipers. Their music trilled and swirled through the chill of the morning, competing with the booming of the drums, the thud of marching feet, the rattle of wheels, and shouts, catcalls, and raucous singing from the crowds. Last of all came an army of ragtag marchers who fell in behind the procession willy-nilly, fighting and carousing as they followed the condemned to the gallows.

The crowds along the pavement cheered as he passed, for all the world as if they were spectators at a sporting match. With a wry smile, Connor acknowledged the huzzahs. If he had had a hand free to wave, he would have. But the guards who stood tensely on either side of him had already tied his hands behind his back. Iron shackles linked by a length of stout chain encircled his ankles. They were taking no chances on a possible escape.

The noise was deafening, the spectacle as colorful as a circus. If he himself had not been the centerpiece of all the hoopla, he might even have been enjoying himself as were the rest of those who had turned out. But for him, the bright dawn might well have a very different ending.

They would go back to their lives, to their small concerns and prejudices, to their families and homes. He could hang.

As the cart rolled up the hill leading to Phoenix Park, Connor had all he could do to stand upright against its lopsided pitching. He would not fall, if he could help it, to be dragged ignominiously to his feet again by the men who stood guard over him. If he was to die, then he would do it like a man. He would not shame his country, his family, or himself. Though he hoped, nay, prayed, that Father Patrick's scheme would come to fruition in time to prevent such a gruesome end.

Spectators stood on the gray walls lining Phoenix Park, except in those parts where the stones had already tumbled to earth. It had been built by a swindler not so many years before, and from the day the last stone had been put in place, it was constantly falling down. The deer that customarily roamed the park had been put into an enclosure for the occasion. Their human replacements occupied every bit of the vast, ordinarily empty green fields.

The gallows had been built hastily for Connor's exclusive use. After his corpse was duly disemboweled, his head would be cut off and placed on a pike to serve as a signal warning to those who might emulate his deeds. What remained of his body would be wrapped in a sheet and placed in a proper coffin in a hearse that waited beneath the gallows at that very moment, to be borne in some state to Arbour Hill. There, without benefit of word or prayer, his remains would be thrown into the pit that had long been the receiving ground for Irish martyrs: it was popularly known as the Croppies' Hole. The gallows would be torn down, and Phoenix Park would be just as it was before, with the addition of one more ghost to scare the superstitious.

At the moment, however, the gibbet stood on a small rise just inside the park, its raw lumber clumsy-looking against the graceful willows and blue pond slightly beyond.

A cheer rose up as the cart jolted to a halt in front of the gallows. The crowd surged forward, to be held back by the extended rifles of the Voluteers. A dead cat sailed out of the crowd to land on the head of one of the nearby guards. He let out a startled oath, but to no avail.

More dead cats pelted the cringing Volunteers.

"Come along, now." The guards who helped Connor from the cart were not unfriendly.

They were brusque men, merely doing their job. Connor stepped down, took the few steps that would bring him to the foot of the gallows, and began to climb, awkward because of the chain linking his feet. On the platform above, the black-hooded hangman waited. Connor scanned the crowd, looking, vainly, for a familiar face. All within his view were strangers. He could only hope that his brothers were where they should be. There was no sign of them either. Had everything gone awry already?

There was no time to ponder. He would carry through the plan as best he could. He closed his eyes briefly, muttering a prayer that the complicated interweaving of elements would come together as they must for his salvation. Despite the cold, he could feel himself begin to sweat.