Dark of the Moon (51 page)

Caitlyn's face rose up in his mind's eye. Father Patrick had promised that she would be kept away today, just in case. ... He loved her more than he had ever imagined he could love a woman—and she was carrying his child. Dear God in heaven, he was not yet ready to die!

As he set foot on the platform from which he was shortly supposed to fall to his death, another cheer went up. Rotten apples and other fruit pelted the gallows, landing in-discriminately on him as well as on the guards and the hangman. There was no priest present to give him comfort, the practicing of the Catholic religion having been outlawed years before.

Though if aught went wrong, and he ended this day in Hell instead of safe away, it comforted him to reflect that Father Patrick had already given him Final Absolution.

Once he gained the platform, one of the guards stopped him with a hand on his arm and the other bent to unlock his shackles. His hands they kept bound behind him.

They flanked him across the platform to the hangman's side. The black-hooded executioner stepped forward to ask his pardon, as was traditional. Connor nodded, said, "I give it freely,"

and prayed there would be nothing to pardon the man for. Then the guards and the hangman alike stepped back, and Connor turned to face the crowd. Every condemned man, before he died, was permitted to make a statement. Though frequently, if what he said was unpopular with his audience, the prisoner would be jerked to his doom without being permitted to finish his (sometimes very long) speech.

Clad in the tattered silver coat, black breeches, and boots, but without a neckcloth though he had managed, in the last few minutes before they had led him from the gaol, to beg a razor and water for shaving, he was a lean, impressive figure as he strode to the edge of the gallows, looked down at the crowd that was thousands strong. A raw egg slapped into the wood just inches from where he stood. He ignored it, gazing out at the spectators as they subsided into muttering silence. The rising sun sent bright rays through the scattered cumulus clouds above that touched on the black waves of his hair and the gleaming silver medallion on his chest. He was a figure out of legend, a myth. Every man, woman, and child in that crowd had heard more than one tale of the Dark Horseman.

When at the last the crowd was silent enough to suit him, Connor took a deep breath and stood for a moment more looking out across the shifting sea of humanity. Then, with a quick inner plea that God would inspire his words, he began, his voice echoing across the fields, gaining strength as he went.

"My friends, I stand before you today condemned to die, accused and convicted of crimes against God and man. Those against God I deny. And of those I am held to have committed against man, I say to you that I committed them in the service of mankind, inspired by God against the very men who would have my blood—and yours. Aye, your blood, and the lifeblood of Ireland! Ireland, my country—and yours. An Irishman I was born, and as an Irishman I will die, and proudly too. Long after my body lies rotting in the Croppies' Hole, my soul will cleave to her green velvet meadows and floating mists, to her rivers and valleys and hills. Long after carrion crows have picked the flesh clean from my bones, I wish for you, my Ireland, and for you, my Irishmen,
slante geal."

During that brief, passionate speech, many a tear rolled down the cheeks of many a man and many a maid. At the forbidden Gaelic of his farewell, a roar went up. Irish Catholics beyond the ring of Volunteers rushed forward. The heavy artillery that had been stationed for show at the perimeter of the park was suddenly shifted, aimed at the Volunteers. From the distance came the sound of running feet. A battalion of armed Straw Boys appeared, and scuffled with the Volunteers. Rifles fired. Women screamed. Men swore and stormed the gallows. In the distance, a cannon boomed.

"It's a Rising! A Rising!" came the cry from somewhere in the crowd. Connor waited for no more. As the guards grabbed for him, he kicked aside the plank on which he would have stood for hanging and jumped down into the blackness below as Father Patrick had instructed him to do. He tumbled into an open hearse, felt hands grab and steady him as the hearse shot forward.

Then they were away with a jolt and a jerk, plowing through the battling crowds that nevertheless parted for this symbol of death.

"Whip 'em up, Mickeen, for the Lord's sake! And ours!" a familiar voice shouted, adding the last as an urgent afterthought. Connor, shifting to his side after landing flat on his face in what he rather suspected was his own coffin, looked up. Cormac, garbed all in black as befitted a pseudo-undertaker, grinned at him. Rory clapped his shoulder. Liam, on the seat with Mickeen, looked around.

"By damn, 'tis good to see you. Conn!" he yelled over his shoulder, even as Cormac and Rory sawed at the ropes binding his hands.

"Aye, we've got you safe away, yer lordship, by God we have, though it took a bloody revolution to do it!" Mickeen sounded exultant as he whipped up the horses and sent them galloping away from Phoenix Park.

"Let's go retrieve Caitlyn and get the hell out of here!" Connor grinned and wrapped an arm around Cormac's shoulders as his brother helped him climb out of his would- be coffin.

There was fighting along the road as the coach in which Sir Edward held her captive tried to get through. Bands of Volunteers clashed with gangs of Straw Boys; peasants marching on their landlords with burning torches and scythes for weapons filled the road at several points. In some places, passing dragoons had engaged the warring peasants in battle, leaving scores dead. Corpses lay where they had fallen, Protestant and Catholic alike. Blood and death and rebellion were in the air. The proposed hanging of the Dark Horseman had touched a chord in the hearts of Irishmen everywhere. He was their own, universally beloved. It was on this love, this sense of the Dark Horseman as a symbol of a conquered nation, that Father Patrick had banked when he had sown the seeds of Uprising in the most productive ears. The peasants were in revolt, the Catholics bent on avenging themselves on their Anglo oppressors. That the Dark Horseman, whom a downtrodden people had taken to their collective hearts, had not died on the gallows after all was a matter for fervent pride among those he called his own as the tale spread from mouth to mouth.

Still groggy from whatever had been on the rag that Sir Edward had held over her mouth, Caitlyn nonetheless was aware of the turmoil raging in the countryside. Cursing, Sir Edward had called on his coachman to get them to a place of safety. But there was no place of safety on this day, and the coachman could only continue along the road and pray that they would be allowed to pass unmolested.

It was near noon, according to Caitlyn's somewhat fuzzy-headed calculations. Though the coachman had stopped several times to let one or the other warring group pass, and had exchanged comments with many, still she knew nothing of Connor's fate. From several gloating comments Sir Edward had made, she knew that he was assuming Connor had been hanged as scheduled. She hoped against hope that he had escaped.

They were headed north in the general direction of Donoughmore and Ballymara. She guessed that he was taking her to the lodge on Ballymara land where he had kept her while she was recovering from her wound. Given its proximity to Donoughmore, she did not think that it was a wise hideaway, from his point of view. But then, he was basing his plans on the assumption that Connor was dead and the younger d'Arcys on the run. And for all she knew, he could be right.

The motion of the carriage was making her nauseous, and she lay back on the seat with her eyes closed. Sir Edward had bound her hands behind her back, and her ankles, too, with ropes he had brought for that purpose. She had been unconscious for quite a while, and had been faking unconsciousness for sometime more. She and Sir Edward were alone in the coach, the man who had originally been inside with them apparently having climbed up on the box with the driver. She was reluctant to open her eyes and face Sir Edward. He would have harsh plans for her, she knew. But she also knew that, whatever happened, she could no longer allow herself to be abused. She had the child to think of. Somehow, she must find a way to escape.

The carriage jolted through a huge rut, and Caitlyn's teeth came down hard on her tongue.

Taken by surprise, she cried out and opened her eyes. Sir Edward was looking at her narrow-eyed.

"I rather thought you were awake, my dear. The dose I gave you was not strong enough to induce such a sleep as you have been pretending to these last mdes."

Caitlyn said nothing, merely looked at him, her expression stony.

"I expect you are mourning d'Arcy. What a pity you missed his hanging."

Still not quite sure that Connor had not indeed been hanged, Caitlyn was stung into retorting:

" 'Tis a pity I did not strike a second blow with the scissors!"

Sir Edward smiled at her, that cruel smile she had come to know and dread. She stiffened her spine and glared at him. Now that his hold on her was at an end, he would find that he was dealing with a very different lass.

"Ah, yes, from your point of view it must be. But we are never permitted second chances in this life, you know. The fact remains that you merely wounded me. 1 am quite recovered now—and you will soon be punished for what you tried to do. Severely punished." He drew this last out as if he enjoyed the sound of the words.

"One day I will kill you." It was a statement, not a threat. His smile faded momentarily, only to slowly renew.

"Do you know, I think I like you defiant? It will add spice as I bring you to heel."

He reached out and put a hand on her breast with casual familiarity. Though she knew he did it merely to demonstrate his mastery over her, Caitlyn could not bear his touch. But, bound as she was, she could not strike his hand away. So instead she spat full in his face.

"You bitch!" He jumped back, glaring at her as he slowly wiped the spittle from his cheek.

Then, smiling, he drew back his hand and slapped her with brutal force across the face.

Caitlyn cried out as her head snapped back. She tasted blood in her mouth from a split lip.

She straightened, cheek numb and burning, and saw that he was drawing back his hand to do it again.

"Whoa, there! Whoa!" The driver's startled oath, coupled with the reining in of the horses, distracted him.

"What's to do?" Sir Edward called out the window. Caitlyn sank back with relief.

"Men in the road—brigands from the look of 'em, yer worship. They've got it blocked."

"Drive through!" Sir Edward ordered as Caitlyn heard the familiar command.

"Stand and deliver!"

"Connor!" she cried, scooting across the seat toward the window. "Connor, I'm here!"

"Get back, you bitch!" Sir Edward hissed, his slap sending her reeling as the door was jerked open before the carriage had come to a complete stop. Connor stood there, still clad in the tattered clothes in which he had faced the gallows. A murderous scowl marred his face.

Caitlyn knew without a word being said that he had witnessed the slap. Behind him, she could see Cormac astride Kildare holding the rest of the horses. She knew that Liam, Rory, and Mickeen must be at hand as well.

Even as his eyes found her, assured himself that she was safe, Connor was reaching into the coach and dragging Sir Edward out.

"He's wearing a sword, watch out!"

Connor reached out, closed his hand over the one Sir Edward was using to draw his sword, and applied pressure. Sir Edward cried out, his hand falling away from the hilt. The sword rattled to the floor of the coach.

"That slap will cost you dear," Connor said through his teeth, his hand wrapped in Sir Edward's coat front. Then he dragged Sir Edward the rest of the way out of the coach and flung the man from him. "Watch him," he said briefly to someone Caitlyn could not see but knew must be either Rory or Liam. Sir Edward stood very still. She guessed that a pistol was pointed at his heart.

"Oh, Connor!" She collapsed back against the seat, smding foolishly as he came inside the coach and sat beside her, reaching for the sword on the floor and using it to saw through her bindings.

"You gave me quite a fright, my own! When we came to the place where we were to collect you, only to be greeted by Father Patrick with the news that you'd been taken. . . . Well, I hope never to endure another morning like it, is all I can say."

"How did you find me?" Her hands were free, and she rubbed them together as he worked on her ankles.

"Some public-spirited bystanders caught one of the thugs who grabbed you. Father Patrick—ah—persuaded him to tell who had taken you, and where. We rode like the devil to overtake you. I was sore afraid that he might do you harm—the bastard. Did he harm you?

Besides the slap that I saw."

"Only another one like it. Nothing more. I am so glad to see you! I was worried you hadn't gotten away."

He straightened up from freeing her feet, and Caitlyn threw herself against him, hugging him fiercely. He wrapped his arms around her, kissed the uninjured side of her mouth.

"I have you safe now, my own, and I don't mean to ever let you go again. Let me just deal with this vermin outside, and we'll be away."

"They'll be looking for you. He doesn't matter. Not any more. There's no time—you must flee!"

He shook his head, put her away from him. "I have too many scores to settle with him. Not until they're discharged will I be free."

Looking at him, she realized that to argue would be a waste of breath and time. "Be careful," she said in a husky voice, but he was already stepping down from the carriage, Sir Edward's sword in his hand. He helped her down, then turned, her hand in his, to face Sir Edward.

"When you abused my wife, you sealed your death warrant, you stinking excuse for a man,"

he said. "However, I will give you the choice I promised you once before: you can be shot where you stand like the dog you are, or you can perish in a fair fight."

Sir Edward, who was held at bay not only by Rory's pistol but by Liam's as well, looked wildly around. The driver and the other man were under guard by Mickeen. They showed no signs of wishing to come to his aid. The carriage had just rounded a bend in the road when it was stopped. Another bend lay ahead. A small rise blocked the view of the countryside to the east. Far to the west, across a meadow and a stream, could be seen a group of peasants, scythes in hand as they marched in what Caitlyn assumed was the direction of their landlord's house.