Flight of the Earls (9 page)

Clare leapt from the seat, screaming as she desperately attempted to pull them off of Finn, who had ceased fighting back. “Please stop. You'll kill him.”

She was flung and rolled painfully on the dirt. When she managed to get back up again, the tinkers departed to the rear of the wagon. The sound of the back latch opening, and the gate's hinges creaking was followed by the heavy steps and snorting protests of the pigs. Clare crawled over to Finn and held him close.

Relieved to feel his chest rising and falling, she took her handkerchief out from her dress pocket and wiped the blood and dirt from his face. His eyes opened slowly and he was disoriented.

“Keep down,” Clare said quietly.

From her position on the ground, Clare could see the legs of pigs moving away and toward the foliage. “Please, God. Make them go.”

Suddenly, Orin appeared from around the wagon. Smudges of blood stained his cheek, contrasting eerily with his smile.

Clare's pulse throbbed and she gasped.

The bearded tinker shouted from the trees, “Orin. Let's go. We've got to get going.”

Disappointment came over Orin's face. He turned, looking over his shoulder once before disappearing behind the wagon. In a few minutes, the sounds of the pigs and the chatter of the tinkers could no longer be heard.

Finn struggled to get to his feet and Clare gave him her hand in support. “Shouldn't you lie down for a while?”

“They'll be back for the mares,” he said. “And you.”

Clare didn't need any further motivation. She helped Finn climb back in the seat and wrapped her arm around him to make sure he wouldn't topple. The old horses seemed anxious to leave, and without the heavy load behind them, they galloped ahead.

A sudden concern came over Clare. Her pack! She leaned over into the back of the wagon and was relieved to see the bulge in the straw where it had been covered. In their haste, the thieves hadn't noticed. At least one of her prayers was answered.

They raced forward toward Cork, as if wolves were clipping at their heels. Soon, an increasing density of homes and busy fields appeared on either side of the road. They passed more and more travelers on foot, some alone, and others in small groups or large caravans, pushing handcarts and guiding pigs and goats before them as they approached the outer boroughs of the city.

As Finn and Clare continued to get closer, buildings large and plentiful began to rise around them. The pavement shifted abruptly from divot-filled dirt to smooth cobblestone, polished by hundreds of years of transport.

Although the sun was setting on the city, it was still bursting with commerce, with street vendors selling fruit and vegetables, skinned pigs hanging from hooks, live poultry in wire cages, clothing and fabrics from afar, parasols and cookware.

Barkers competed for the attention of the streams of visitors, advertising their wares with booming voices rising and falling depending upon the class, or apparent gullibility, of the prospects walking by them.

The bustling activity was so captivating and invigorating, Clare nearly forgot her misadventure on the road. Yet when the sky cracked with waves of thunder, the darkening clouds spoke to her of the difficulties of the day and of those looming yet ahead.

As they entered a particularly spacious and active plaza, Finn slowed the cart and locked the brake. His face was already swelling and bruises were beginning to show. “This is the marketplace.”

She looked at him blankly, not understanding the significance of what he was saying.

“You'll find a place to rest here.”

Panning her gaze around, she saw heavy horse-drawn traffic in both directions, a flush of merchant activity, and old rock-hewn buildings, green in hue from moss and blackened with time. But she didn't notice anything that would indicate lodging was available.

Finn read through her confusion. “You won't need to find an inn. Here, the inns find you.”

She didn't understand, but when he winced in pain as he raised his arm, Clare's concern shifted back on Finn. “What about you?”

“I'll be fine.” He put his hand to his chin and rubbed it. “But I think they kicked out all me teeth.” He paused for a moment and then opened his mouth wide in full, unbridled laughter.

She was flabbergasted that the battered old man was laughing at his own calamity. But laugh he did, intermittently slapping his legs and then holding his ribs as if in pain. Had the blows to his head caused some kind of madness? But soon she couldn't resist the draw of his mirth, and she joined him in laughing.

The fear and angst eased from the core of her being. Yes. They'd both be fine.

She gave the wiry, old man a hug and got down from the wagon, and he handed Clare her canvas bag. After brushing off the straw, she tossed the pack over her shoulder. The weight of it reminded her how grateful she was when Finn's wagon first slowed to give them a ride. It seemed like months ago.

Abruptly, as it was accustomed to do in Branlow, and apparently in Cork as well, rain started to fall in sheets of frigid water. People in the streets shrieked as they scattered for cover.

“Take good care of yourself, Mr. Finn.”

“That I will. Good luck to you, young lady. May there be better roads ahead.”

With that, he snapped his wrists and the cart tugged forward and wheeled its way down the city corridor, passing through frantic people retreating from the rain, some with umbrellas and others simply covering their heads with their hands.

Sadness swept over Clare as Finn and the wagon disappeared from her vision, leaving her wet, cold, and entirely alone in this crowded square.

But tugging at her as well was another emotion that began to rise from the depths of her being. Although frightened and feeling abandoned, Clare also experienced a strange flash of exhilaration.

Chapter 7

The Wayfarer's Inn

Clare found a ledge under a three-story mud-and-brick building where there was refuge from the downpour. How pathetic she must appear. Soaked in her clothing, her long black hair matted against her face, carrying a drenched bag that contained all of her possessions.

What had she done? Clare had never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet she knew none of them. How obvious was it that she was alone and vulnerable with no place to go?

People passed by, shapeless, faceless, bumping into her, voices shouting, running to get out of the rain. Yet what made her most uncomfortable was how many souls went by without acknowledging her existence. Clare was used to greeting everyone she locked gazes with in her small town, but doing so here seemed both discouraged and dangerous.

Across the street, somewhat obscured by the pounding of the rain, two men leaned against a brick wall, feasting on her with their glares.

She felt a tug on her arm and Clare swung around. A boy of about twelve years stood dry beneath an umbrella. His face was ruddy and he was adorned in a tattered dress suit and top hat, which in its glory days might have been worn by a governor's son.

“Lodging, miss?”

She nodded mutely.

His face brightened. “Knew so. Always spot 'em miles away. He has a nose on him they say. Master Redmond is me name. But you can call me Pence. All my friends do. You know why it 'tis? They say he'll do anything for a pence. Well. Look at me being ungentlemanly.”

The boy handed Clare the umbrella and grabbed the pack from her arms. First stumbling when the burden transferred to him, he gave it a lunge, and though bent over, he steadied it firmly.

“Follow me, miss. Keep your eyes on Pence as he wouldn't want to lose you in the crowd and the rain.” He started to walk and waved her to follow. “Come now. Finest lodging for guests you'll find. Did you come from far?”

Clare started to answer but didn't get a chance.

“First time to Cork? That's certain. The farmies like yourself, miss. You all stand out like flies swimming in a pitcher of milk, you do. Not meaning any offense. Just pointing it out to you. The farmies only used to come for market, they did. But now it's off to the harbor to the big ships and far places. Best harbor in the world in Cork right here. At least they tell me so. Someday Pence will go. Who knows where?”

Surprised at how difficult it was to keep up with him, despite the fact he was carrying the bag, Clare focused on the task. Ever more amazing was his ability to turn his head and hold a conversation while leading them at a swift pace.

They weaved through streets and alleys that grew darker and more run-down as they pressed forward. As he took her deeper into the bowels of the city, she grew worried, especially as faces peering through doorways and windows seemed more sinister and discontent.

When she would ask him how close they were, his response was always the same. “Just around the corner, miss. Keep lively.”

And then he would burrow farther through alleyways, rattling on at a shout about the history of the city, favorite places to eat, marketplaces to negotiate the best bargains, and he even described the architecture of certain buildings, explaining in some cases how he would have designed them much differently. Neither the burden of the bag he was carrying or the pounding of the rain dampened his step or mood.

Just when she was about to dig in her heels and insist she wouldn't go a step farther, Clare's young guide turned to her. “Here we are, miss. Told you it's a beauty.”

Down the alleyway where it curved to darkness, a sign that read Wayfarer's Inn flapped in the wind and rain. They arrived at the entranceway to the building, its outside walls blackened in sections by what once appeared to be flames.

Sitting on a stool in the archway, just deep enough to be out of the reach of the rain, was a man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose.

Pence removed the bag from his shoulder and placed it gingerly on one of the few dry spots on the floor. Rattling tin buckets lined the hallway ahead as they caught the heavy dripping from the ceiling. “Here you are, Mr. Evans. The lady has come to enjoy your hospitality.”

The man was cleaning his fingernails with a knife, and he barely acknowledged his guest. “Are you staying for just the night?”

“Yes.” Clare thought she smelled urine coming from inside. “Most certainly.”

“Then it's five pence. In full. Up front.”

Clare grimaced. The hallway was damp and dark, and she didn't know how much worse it would get once she got inside. But she was deathly tired, it was pouring outside, and she had no fight left in her.

“Very well.” She opened the canvas bag and probed her hand blindly past clothes, books, and food until she came to the leather purse her mother had given her many years ago. She pulled it out, and after fumbling through the change, she pulled out five pennies.

Pence reached out to receive them from her, but the proprietor slapped his hand away and scowled at him. “Where's your manners, lad?”

His coarse fingers snatched the coins from Clare's palm and he inspected them closely, even biting one with his teeth. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he put them in his vest pocket and reached behind for a ring of keys hanging off of a rusted nail on the wall. He unfastened one from the metal loop and handed it to Pence. “Number 12.”

The boy reached down and lifted Clare's sack again. “Follow me, miss.” They headed down the lantern-lit hallway, being careful not to trip over any of the buckets. They passed by numbered doors on each side, and Clare could tell by how closely they were nestled to one another that the room would be tiny.

When they got to the end of hallway, Pence was careful again to set Clare's sack on a dry spot on the floor, which was not an easy task. He grabbed a lantern from a hook on the wall and used it to illuminate the keyhole. He turned the key, and the door opened reluctantly with a squeak.

As she followed behind Pence through the door, Clare was pleased to see that although it was barely furnished with only a bed and a table, its floors seemed to be free of moisture and the chamber pot appeared to be mostly empty.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Pence stood almost at attention.

“No. That should be all. Oh yes, of course.” She opened her purse and withdrew a copper coin and handed it to the boy.

“Obliged.” He tipped his hat, bowed, and turned to go.

Clare thought of something, which seemed futile but perhaps worth trying in light of the boy's knowledge of the city. “Pence. There is something else. I'm hoping to rejoin my brother and his friend here in town. My brother's name is Seamus Hanley. He is tall with black hair. His friend Pierce is a stocky redhead. How would one go about finding them?”

Pence brightened. “You just did, miss. Seamus and Pierce, you say? If they are travelers like you, they are as good as found. Pence knows all of the places and the people to ask. They say Pence has a nose, you know.”

Clare wasn't hopeful, but she found his confidence charming nonetheless. She reached back into her purse. “Here is another penny for your troubles. And if you find them for me, I'll have four more for you.”