The Maid of Ireland (10 page)

Caitlin slumped on the bench while all around her, people exclaimed in admiration. She alone understood the ramifications of Seamus’s decision. Men obeyed her because she was the daughter of the MacBride. Without his presence, her authority would disintegrate. Her men would erode into warring factions, relax their vigilance, and become easy prey for the English.

She was as sympathetic as the next person to the plight of the Irish priests, but sacrificing all she had accomplished was too great a price to pay.

“And so,” Seamus continued, “in order to proceed on my holy quest, I must abdicate as the MacBride.”

Just as incredulous looks passed among the listeners, the main door burst open. His color high from a fast ride, Logan Rafferty strode into the hall. Magheen flashed him a venomous look, but he didn’t notice. His gaze settled on Hawkins. “I thought you’d gone on your way, Englishman.”

Hawkins grinned. He wasn’t used to the powerful effects of poteen, and had drunk more than his fill. “How could I stay away?” he asked blithely, drawing his knee up to his chest.

At the sight of the chains, Logan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the devil’s this?”

Caitlin held her breath. With a word, Hawkins could betray the Fianna to Logan. Then the prideful lord would forbid her activities. Please, God, don’t let him tell, she prayed silently. Hawkins spread his hands.

“Clonmuir hospitality. Hard to resist, eh? But enough about me. You’ve interrupted an abdication.”

“A what?” Logan turned to Seamus.

“Aye, it’s true. I’m off to find the priests of Ireland.”

“But you have no successor,” Conn called out. “No son, nor even a nephew to take your place.”

“And a grandson seems highly unlikely.” Logan pointedly eyed his wife across the room.

“So I must name a successor.”

The crowd inhaled a collective breath; then the speculation began. Rory Breslin squared his shoulders. He was a giant of a man and a master of pitched battle. But Rory was made to carry out orders, not conceive battle plans.

Tom Gandy planted his feet and set his hands on his hips. Not a soul at Clonmuir would dispute his wily intelligence, his blade-sharp wit tempered by a humanity that endeared him to all. But he was, despite his gifts, afflicted by dwarfism and suspected of dabbling in the black arts. Caitlin didn’t believe it for a moment, but some did. Every drought, every famine, every contagion would be blamed on him.

Her gaze, in concert with everyone else’s, finally and reluctantly settled on Logan Rafferty. Full of a swaggering confidence that dug at her pride, he stood with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back.

Lofty of rank and a MacBride by marriage, young and strapping, and charming when he wished to be, he would carry out the duties of the chieftain with alacrity.

But he didn’t know about the Fianna. Fear trembled inside Caitlin, for she knew all would be lost. Logan was too cautious to lead raids on the English.

A protest leapt to her lips, but died unspoken. No woman had ever been in on the decision before. But she was Caitlin. She was different. “Daida, please—” Then she stopped herself. Please what? There was nothing she could do, no words she could speak, that would sway the men.

“If I choose you,” said Seamus to Logan, “will you rule by the old law?”

Logan’s spurs clinked as he approached the high table. “Has it not always been so at Clonmuir?”

Sighs of relief gusted from the listeners. But Caitlin studied him closely. A guarded look shadowed his eyes, and suddenly she knew with sick certainty that he was lying. Once chieftain, he would rule in English fashion, collecting tithes, parceling out tenantry, claiming ownership of lands that had belonged to no one but the immortals since time began. It was all she could do to keep from leaping up and blurting out her fears.

Alonso, she thought. I need you now. I need a man who believes in me. A man whose voice will speak my heart for me.

“What about Caitlin?”

The hall reverberated with the strong English voice of John Wesley Hawkins. With gaping mouths and astonished eyes, all turned to face him.

A strange heat rose to stain Caitlin’s throat and cheeks bright red.

Logan spun around, his black eyes flashing. “Dare you speak, Englishman?”

Hawkins shrugged. “Someone had to, for she won’t speak for herself.”

“This is none of your concern,” snapped Logan. Addressing Rory, he said, “Kill the fellow and be done with him. Faith, he’s just another mouth to feed.”

But Hawkins’s words took root in the fertile minds of the men who had ridden with her to triumph. She could see the idea began to blossom in her father’s eyes and in Tom’s knowing smile.

“Look, she runs this household and leads—is served by brave men.” Hawkins stood, hefting the iron ball in one hand. “What are the qualities of a chieftain?”

“He must put the needs of the clan before his own,” said Seamus.

Hawkins gestured pointedly at her uneaten meal. “While you were stuffing your gullets, she was settling disputes.”

“He must be able of mind and body,” said Rory Breslin.

The Englishman smiled. “Show me a weakness in that woman, and I’ll eat my ball and chain.”

“He rules by sacred trust,” said Tom Gandy.

“Here I stand in bondage,” said Hawkins, “and yet I trust her.”

“Damned meddling Englishman,” Logan spat. “You only want a woman as chief so you can wheedle your way out of those chains. Turn him over to me, I say.”

Hawkins ignored him, facing Seamus instead. “You had to ask Rafferty if he would rule according to tradition. Would you even have to ask this of Caitlin?”

“No, of course not, she—”

“Need I say more?” Hawkins took a sip from his mug.

“It could work, by God,” said Seamus. “Aye, she’s her mother’s daughter and has been the strength of this sept these six years. I’m not too proud to admit it.”

People began to murmur, heads to nod. Frozen on the bench, Caitlin felt a sick hope building in her, rising, reaching. She could be the MacBride. She deserved to be. She had given her heart and soul to Clonmuir. No one cared as much as she. No one knew these people as she did. She fought for them, wept when they grieved and rejoiced when good fortune came to them.

Ah, sweet Jesus, I want this, she thought. More than anything, I want to be the MacBride.

Hawkins sat with an indulgent smile on his face, the smile of a man capable of manipulating a crowd. The smile of a man with a secret motive. She’d worry about that later.

“Can you do it, Caitlin?” Seamus seemed to be calling to her across a great distance. “Can you take up the white wand of the MacBride?”

She rose to her feet. Now was no time for feminine modesty. Her gaze locked with Logan’s, and they waged a silent battle.

I’ve bowed to your wishes all my life, she told him. A hundred times, I’ve let you best me when I could have won. This time I’ll not sacrifice my people for your pride. It’s time I showed you my true abilities, time I had what is mine by right.

“Daida,” she said, “every person in this room knows I can. But it’s more than that. I know that I must.”

“This is madness,” Logan burst out. “No clan or sept can have a female chieftain.”

“Oh, no?” Magheen asked. “Where is it written, Logan? You show us, and I’ll see that my sister bows down at your feet.”

He looked as if he’d eat her for supper. “You bow at my feet and I’ll—” Reining in the thought, he said churlishly, “It doesn’t have to be written. It’s tradition and common sense.”

“What of Scathach,” Magheen challenged, “the warrior goddess who tutored Cuchulainn in his skills?”

“And then there was Aife,” Tom Gandy added in his loud bardic voice, “another woman chieftain. I remember me, too, of Queen Macha Mong Ruad, who reigned—”

“You’d all be fools to follow the rump of a misguiding woman,” Logan hollered. “Sure doesn’t the herd led by a mare stray and perish.”

“And sure don’t the heifers grow big where there are no bulls,” Magheen countered.

Hawkins eyed Logan up and down. “The job calls for more intelligence than physical strength.”

“And you’ve got more cheek than common sense,” Brian muttered as Logan shot a lethal look at the prisoner.

“The law calls for a vote,” said Tom Gandy.

“A vote?” roared Logan. “Get some wits on you, little man. It’s the
brehons
who do the electing, and there are no
brehons
here.”

Tom smiled bitterly. “Because the English have outlawed our lawgivers. But here there be men of good heart and sound judgment.”

“Aye,” said Seamus, “and hasn’t that been the quality of the
brehons?
Let each man who would have Caitlin for his chieftain light a flame to signify his allegiance.”

Uncertain glances passed among the men. Caitlin’s heart pounded with dread.

Tom took a torch from a wall bracket, thrust the end into the central fire, and held it aloft. “MacBride!” he yelled.

Curran Healy shuffled forward and lifted a flame of his own. Conn O’Donnell followed suit. After him came Liam the smith and Brian. Rory Breslin hesitated, then strode forward and lit his flame. One by one, every other man present cast his vote.

The hall blazed with light and loyalty. Only Seamus and Logan remained. Caitlin held her breath. Involuntarily, her gaze sought Hawkins. He lifted his mug and mouthed the word “courage.”

Seamus screwed his eyes shut, muttered a prayer, and lit a torch. Snorting in disgust, Logan turned his back on them.

With her nose in the air, her hips swaying, and a look of defiance on her beautiful face, Magheen walked past her husband.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To cast my vote.”

“Women have no right to vote.”

“Maybe that will change once Caitlin’s the MacBride.” Magheen picked up a torch.

“If you so much as go near that fire,” Logan warned in a low, deadly voice, “I’ll never take you back.”

Magheen kept her eyes trained on him. Her face paled, but her arm was steady as she lit the torch and shouted, “MacBride!”

Seamus lifted his glass. “Good health to us all,” he proclaimed. “And may we be seven thousand times better in health and happiness this time again!”

Pride rushed like a fresh wind over Caitlin. Her heart lifted and she spread her arms, wishing she could embrace every man, woman, and child in the room.

Even Hawkins. Especially Hawkins.

People pressed around her, bestowing good wishes and blessings. At length Logan came close. He bent and clasped her hand in customary fashion.

Caitlin had no time to feel relief, for in the next instant his words gave the lie to his actions. “I’ll not be forgiving you, Caitlin MacBride,” he whispered. Each word was a drop of poison, stinging her heart and flooding her with doubts.

But when Logan moved away, there was Hawkins. Her enemy, her prisoner, her champion. He, too, took her hand. His was callused, abraded by rope burns and hard labor. Caitlin shivered slightly at his touch.

In his gaze she saw dreams and mysteries, secrets she longed in spite of herself to unlock. He had the strangest eyes. In the flickering torchlight, she fancied, just for a moment, that she saw two souls locked behind the cool gray-green prisons of his eyes. The Roundhead scoundrel and the man of mercy.

“You’ve still not had your supper,” he said.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Come out in the yard with me, Caitlin, away from this crowd.”

“You’re a prisoner, no longer a guest.” Still, she felt drawn to him, enticed by the unknown like a sailor chasing a phantom horizon.

“Very well.” He started to lug his iron ball away.

“Wait,” Caitlin heard herself saying. He turned back. Lord Jesus, but he was broad and well favored. “I...could be using a breath of air.”

They stepped into the cool of the evening. A harrying wind stirred the stunted evergreen oaks, scraping crooked branches against the walls. From the stables came the mutter of horses settling in for the night. From the hall came the sound of Tom Gandy’s voice weaving a tale that promised to hold his listeners spellbound for hours.

“Why did you put forth my name?” she asked.

“Because you wouldn’t speak for yourself. And you wanted to, Caitlin MacBride, so badly. I could see the need flaming through you, burning in your eyes. What surprises me is that none of your own seemed to notice.”

His words had magic in them. A powerful force told her to believe him and to thank God and all the saints that he had voiced her deepest desire. But he was a liar, she told herself.

“English never do a thing without the possibility of gain,” she said. “You want something and hope to get it from me.”

“Of course I do,” he agreed readily.

“Your freedom?”

“That’s correct.” But his eyes told her there was more to his wants than simple freedom.

“I can’t give you that. You’ve proven yourself treacherous and I cannot trust you.”

His eyes flashed in the darkness. Anger? Hurt? His moods were as hard to read as the moon on a cloudy night. “Very well, Your Highness,” he said. “Why do
you
think I wanted you elected?”

“You think things will be easier for you with me in charge. You think putting a woman on the seat of the MacBride will weaken us.”

His lip curled in a sardonic smile. “Let’s see. You dragged me for miles at the end of a rope, left me bound and helpless while you raided an army’s supply train, and soldered me to a cannonball. I’ve known battle-hardened generals who treat their prisoners easier.”

A twinge stung her insides and touched her in the small secret place where her womanly pride dwelt. She made no sign that his words hurt. When Alonso came, he would set the woman inside her free.

“What are you going to do with me, Caitlin?” Hawkins asked.

“I don’t know yet. Are you worth a ransom from the butcher Cromwell?”

Fury iced his handsome features. “You’d be a fool if you sent me to Cromwell.”

She sensed real desperation behind the cold facade. Apparently Cromwell showed no compassion for men who managed to get themselves captured. “There must be some use for you.”