Song of the Silent Harp (22 page)

Young Kavanagh now tipped his chin even higher. A wary glint just short of
defiance, hardened the boy's expression, and Evan caught a glimpse of the same quiet, unbending courage he had sensed in the youth that day on the hill behind Cotter's house.

Evan's gaze left the boy to scan the crowd, locking almost at once, on a man standing just behind young Kavanagh and his mother, towering over them like some sort of threatening guardian angel. Again his breath caught in his throat, and his entire body began to vibrate with a blend of fascination and dread. Unable to tear his gaze away from the copper-haired giant, Evan fought to regain his wits.

The man was a mountain in frieze, a colossus decked in a homespun cloak and worn leather boots. Swallowing hard, Evan found himself staring into the most intense, dangerous green eyes he had ever encountered, and he knew at once he was looking into the face of the notorious outlaw-patriot, Morgan Fitzgerald.

The Red Wolf.

19

A flghting-man he was…
A copper-skinned six-footer,
Hewn out of the rock,
Who would stand up against
His hammer-knock?
A goodly man, A Gael.…

J
OSEPH
C
AMPBELL
(1879-1944)

T
he Irish giant's intimidating size, the thick, wild russet hair tossed wetly about his head, and the full bronze beard perfectly mirrored what Quincy Moore had written of him. Fitzgerald's features were neither coarse nor heavy, as Evan had anticipated. Indeed, had it not been for the terrible scowl fixed upon his face, the man might have been considered almost handsome in appearance, if a bit rustic.

Evan now became aware that the entire procession had stopped where they were on the side of the road, and that all eyes were fixed on him in a combined force of open hostility. Still he found it impossible to drag his gaze away from the giant, who seemed determined to annihilate him with his blazing stare. The man stepped out in front of the boy and his mother as if to shield the two of them with his body, and his size was such that he almost totally concealed them both.

Up until this moment, Evan had viewed the stories about the Irish brigand with a mixture of intrigue, skepticism, and a certain sense of excitement. Confronted with the legend face-to-face, however, he was struck by a reaction he could not have anticipated. To his surprise, his mind now registered a distinct quake of panic.

Not only was the rogue even larger in life than the tales told about him, but a carefully controlled energy seemed to emanate from him, a power that, while temporarily under restraint, threatened to break loose at any instant. The big man's obvious calm and ease of posture suggested, if not actual arrogance, at least absolute confidence; yet Evan sensed an inferno blazing inside the man, constrained only by sheer force of will.

For a moment the granite-faced Irishman simply stared at Evan as if he were no more than an irritating toad. When he finally did move, he took only two broad steps, then stopped, his eyes traveling slowly up the height of the horse until they came to rest on Evan's face.

Evan steeled himself to meet the man's patently contemptuous stare, praying he wouldn't stammer. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before speaking. “Good…day to you, sir. My name is—” He stopped, determinedly pushing the words from his mouth. “Whittaker. Evan Whittaker.”

The man's cloak had fallen open, revealing a harp similar to the boy's riding high on one shoulder, and what appeared to be the handle of a pistol tucked into the waist of his breeches. The Irishman again stepped forward, this time coming close enough that he could easily have reached up and yanked Evan from his mount if so inclined. It did not escape Evan that one hard tug from that hammer of a hand would most likely break his arm, and for a moment he had all he could do not to lash his horse and go tearing off down the road.

Despite his apprehension, however, he had to admit that coming upon both Fitzgerald and the Kavanagh boy together seemed too propitious an occurrence to be written off as mere chance. If this were God's way of providing him a means of carrying out His will, he could hardly afford to retreat out of cowardice.

The giant stood in menacing silence, his eyes shooting out a blast of disgust strong enough to make Evan flinch. Driven by an increasing urgency, he reminded himself that the chap was a poet, a back-country schoolmaster—not an armor-decked warlord. Best not to dwell on the unsettling fact that he was also reputed to be a revolutionary and an outlaw—an
armed
outlaw.

“A-a—am I correct in assuming that you are M-M-Morgan F-F-Fitzgerald?” Evan felt his skin heat as the humiliating stammer now exploded full-force.

A murmur behind Fitzgerald was silenced with a slight lift of the giant's
hand. Again his contemptuous expression pinned Evan in place. The green eyes narrowed, the wide, generous mouth thinned to a slash, and finally the big Irishman spoke. “I am Fitzgerald. And what is that to you?” he countered in a voice deadly in its quiet.

Feeling increasingly threatened, Evan groped to maintain a calm of his own. “As I said, my n-name is Whittaker.” He paused, waiting.

“Aye. The
Englishman.”

An entire history of contempt echoed from those quiet words, and Evan thought he would never again feel quite the same about himself. His hands went clammy inside his gloves, and the knot in his throat swelled to a fist. “I…really must t-talk with you right away, Fitzgerald.” Hesitating, he then added, “And…the boy as well.”

The fire in Fitzgerald's eyes now died, to be replaced by a glacial stare. “And what boy would that be?”

Evan managed a stiff nod in Daniel Kavanagh's direction. The Irishman's bearded chin seemed to slide forward and lock in place as his voice turned even softer and more menacing. “Now what possible business could the Big Lord's lackey have with an ignorant Paddy like myself and a poor village lad?”

Evan swallowed with great difficulty, but refused to let the man goad him. “I assure you, it's im…p-portant. For you
and
the boy.”

“Ah, indeed.”

“Is there s-somewhere we could talk alone?” Evan pressed. “You m-must believe me, it's for your own good.”

“Oh, of
course
it is,” Fitzgerald answered. His tone was openly mocking, but a warning still lurked in his eyes.

Evan's exasperation with the man overcame his caution. “N-now see here, F-Fitzgerald, you're in t-terrible jeopardy, as is young Kavanagh! It would b-be to your advantage to hear me out.”

Fitzgerald's expression darkened, and when he spoke the mask of the cynic had disappeared. “Have a care, man. This is not the day to be dallying with me.”

Evan could no longer contain his frustration. “For the love of heaven, m-man, I'm not
dallying
with you! I'm t-trying to save your neck! And the boy's as well!”

He cringed as Fitzgerald's ruddy complexion paled with fury, but he also thought that at last he might have penetrated the stubborn Irishman's guard. The man turned away for a moment, saying something in the barbaric tongue Evan recognized as Gaelic. Immediately, the mourners began to move, a few at a time, continuing their doleful march down the road. Only the boy, his mother, and the craggy-faced man at her side remained.

Young Kavanagh suddenly moved, starting toward Fitzgerald, who motioned him off with an upraised hand and a firm shake of his head. Again, he muttered something in their unpronounceable language, and the boy stopped, leveling a dark, furious frown on Evan.

Turning back, Fitzgerald searched Evan's face with narrowed eyes for a long moment. “You'll understand if I seem to question your interest,” he said in a voice as deep as a drum roll. “It's a new thing for me entirely, you see, having an Englishman concerned for my well-being.” Searching frantically for just the right words to break through Fitzgerald's antagonism, Evan pulled in a deep, steadying breath.

Oh, Lord, please take this abominable stammer away, at least for the moment, so Fitzgerald won't think me such a joke. I can't possibly be of any help to him or the boy if he won't even take me seriously!

Vaguely recollecting that the heroes in his favorite adventure novels always tightened their jaws when faced with a challenge, Evan now clenched his own. Facing his adversary with rigid resolve, he decided to go right to the heart of things. “I thought you should know that Cotter's bully-boys will be at the Kavanagh cottage before evening,” he said, trying to keep his voice low enough that only Fitzgerald could hear “They, ah…they have orders to collect the boy and take him to Cotter on…on the pretext that he was paid a day's wages he never earned.”

“That's a
lie!”
His face contorted with rage, Fitzgerald reached to lay a hand on the mare's neck. “The boy owes that blackheart nothing! Nothing!”

“I understand that,” Evan quickly assured him, flinching at Fitzgerald's abrupt movement. “I'm telling you what I heard, nothing else.”

Evan shuddered in spite of himself at the fury that seemed to shake the big man's powerful frame. The quiet voice cracked like a whiplash, and fire leaped in Fitzgerald's eyes. “And how is it that you know what Cotter and his rabble are up to?”

“I overheard them. His two thugs are supposed to assist with some evictions in the—the
Acres
—then come back to town and pick up the boy. They're to take him directly to Cotter,” Evan explained. He was vaguely aware that his stammer had fled as his words came tumbling out in a rush—confirmation, perhaps, that God was indeed enabling him.

Fitzgerald started to speak, but Evan stopped him. “That's not all,” he said, pressing his lips together nervously. “I'm…supposed to be serving an eviction notice on your brother even now. He and his family are to be out of their dwelling by tomorrow morning.”

Evan felt almost driven now, engulfed by a need to deliver all the sordid facts into Fitzgerald's hands as quickly as possible. “As for you,” he went
on, “you'll be arrested the minute they catch sight of you. Cotter's putting out
Wanted
posters all over the village, and there will be a warrant for your arrest issued yet today, if there isn't one already. You
must
get away!” He paused, then added urgently, “And the boy—he dare not return to his home!”

Fitzgerald took a step back, measuring Evan with suspicious eyes. “What are you about, man? What, exactly, is your game?”

The blunt question stopped Evan for only an instant. “We can't afford to waste time sparring about my motives! In truth, I…I'm not at all sure I understand them myself. You'll simply have to trust me.”

A sharp, ugly laugh exploded from Fitzgerald. “You are an Englishman,” he said, as if that explained it all.

Evan bristled. “I am also a
Christian.”

“Aye,” Fitzgerald bit out, his tone thick with scorn. “As was Oliver Cromwell.”

Grinding his teeth to keep from screaming at the man, Evan challenged him. “I thought perhaps
you
might be a believer.”

Fitzgerald lifted an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Ach, and could a Paddy be a Christian like yourself?” he drawled. “Ah, no, we're but cowherds and bogmen, don't you know? Heathens, every last mother's son of us.”

Evan was taken aback by the faint light in Fitzgerald's eyes, which seemed to alter his entire appearance. The militant chieftain had suddenly taken on a lively, if sardonic wit.

Flustered by the quicksilver change in the man, Evan snapped defensively, “You are wasting precious time, Fitzgerald! It was my understanding that you have…some concern for the Kavanagh boy; certainly you must have a care for yourself. Will you do nothing to save your life and his?”

“You have not answered my question,” Fitzgerald said, his expression turning hard as he dropped the exaggerated brogue. “Why are you doing this? You
are
Gilpin's man, are you not?”

By now Evan was feeling decidedly peevish. His chest ached from the miserable wet weather, his nose was dripping, and his backside was sore from spending a great deal more time on horseback than he was used to. Moreover, he was out of patience with Fitzgerald's mulishness. “I am Roger Gilpin's secretary!” he snapped, gripped for a moment by a coughing seizure. When he could again speak, he added, “I'm employed by the man. That doesn't necessarily mean that I…agree with all his methods.”

Fitzgerald said nothing, but merely crossed his arms over his spacious chest and gave Evan another long, studying look.

Forcing himself not to shrink beneath the Irishman's fierce glare, Evan
chose his words carefully. “Quite frankly,” he said, “I'm not at all certain my employer would approve of Cotter's conduct. That man is utterly despicable! And I know he's lying about the boy, because I was there that day when he offered young Kavanagh a job. There was no money exchanged—none at all.” He paused. “As for what he intends to do with
you
—”

Something glinted in Fitzgerald's eyes, and Evan faltered. The man
was
an outlaw, after all; who was to say he wouldn't shoot him on the spot if he didn't like what he heard?

“Cotter believes you to be…ah, I believe the name he used was…the
Red Wolf.
In addition,” Evan continued cautiously, “you seem to have…threatened him at some time, I take it? He makes no secret of his hatred for you.”

Fitzgerald seemed thoroughly unruffled about his own peril. “You say Cotter's men will be back in the village by evening?”

Relieved that the man finally seemed to be listening, Evan nodded eagerly. “You
must
get yourself and the boy out of sight! Do you have a place where you can go?”

Ignoring his question, Fitzgerald raked a hand down one side of his face in a gesture of frustration. “You're sure Thomas—my brother—has until morning before he's turned out?”