The Maid of Ireland (21 page)

“Damn it, Hawkins, this had better be good. If Lord Cromwell didn’t have such high regard for your abilities, I’d have you transported to the Barbados where riffraff and madmen like you belong.”

Wesley stood easily against a thick carved chair. “Are you finished, Captain?”

Equally sarcastic, Hammersmith made a small bow. “I await your explanation.”

“It’s simple enough.” His plan had to work. He had to bend Hammersmith to his will. “I’ve captured the leader of the Fianna, and I’m ready to take ship back to England.”

Hammersmith’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve captured the devil? God’s blood, why didn’t you say so right off? Where is the scoundrel?”

“In your drawing room.”

“The priest? Impossible! The popish lout doesn’t look capable of leading a flock of spring lambs much less a company of rebels. Impossible, I say.”

“You’re right. It’s not the priest.”

Red faced with frustrated confusion, Hammersmith burst out, “Enough of riddles. Just tell me—”

“It’s the girl.”

Shock, disbelief, and suspicion led the Roundhead’s features through a series of contortions. “Impossible!”

“It came as a surprise to me as well.” Wesley suffered a vivid memory of the night he had nearly killed Caitlin. “But it’s true. I witnessed her in action the night of the Lough Corrib raid.”

“None of the survivors of that raid mentioned a girl.”

“She fights in a war helm with a veil.”

Hammersmith rubbed his jaw. “Ladyman did say he saw you bring down a man on a black horse. He was under the impression you’d perished in the raid.”

“The horseman was Caitlin MacBride.”

Rocking back on his heels, Hammersmith pinched his lip between his thumb and forefinger. “Extraordinary.”

“I agree. She’s rather like Joan of Arc.”

“Who’s that?” asked Hammersmith. “Another female chieftain?”

Wesley felt a rare wistful longing to be in the company of scholars at Douai, where they not only had heard of Joan, but could tell her story in seven languages.

“Never mind.”

Hammersmith steepled his fingers. “So. Since you and Ladyman are eyewitnesses to her treachery, I think we can dispense with a trial.”

“I think dispensing with a trial is an excellent idea, sir.”

“I’m glad you agree. Honestly, I confess I had my doubts about you, but we finally seem to see eye to eye on this matter. Now. I’ve a full schedule tomorrow. We’re getting ready to send a shipment of wenches to the Indies, and—”

“A shipment of
what?
”

“Of wenches, Mr. Hawkins. Women.”

“Irishwomen?”

“Of course. You don’t think we’d subject good Englishwomen to transportation, do you?”

“So these women volunteered to be transported to the colonies?”

“Are you daft? Of course they didn’t volunteer.”

Wesley’s vision swam with rage. “You’re forcing them?”

Hammersmith laughed. “Forcing is just a word. Their villages are rubble; their fields bear nothing but weeds. Their men are all killed or exiled. They have no life here.”

Because we took it from them, Wesley thought. And then, like pieces of a puzzle, a picture formed in his mind. His hand went to the fold of his belt, where his papers were stored, including the list of names he had purloined from Hammersmith. Now he realized it was not a census roll at all, but a receipt.

“My God,” he said, barely able to govern his fury, “you
sold
them into bondage.”

“That’s a lie! This is a legitimate enterprise sanctioned by the Commonwealth.”

“No.” Wesley took a step forward. Hammersmith’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You collected money for the women. And I doubt the Commonwealth will see a copper penny of it.”

Hammersmith’s color deepened. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “We stray from the point. I merely brought up the matter to explain why the execution can’t take place until the day after tomorrow.”

Wesley planted his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to execute her.” He was certain of it now.

“Cromwell requires only her head. From the way she behaves, I’d think you’d be grateful. Alive, she’s bound to be a great deal of trouble.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Captain. She does indeed promise to be trouble.”

“Damn it, you’re doing it again. You’re talking in riddles.”

“I don’t mean to. Captain Hammersmith, the young lady is not to be executed.” The power of his knowledge about the Roundhead’s deceit swelled within him.

Hammersmith slammed a beefy fist down on the desk. “For God’s sake, why the devil not?”

“Because I’m going to marry her.”

* * *

“Impossible!” Caitlin stood in a stateroom of the English trading frigate
Mary Constant.
In front of her stood John Wesley Hawkins. “Sure that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Hawkins nodded agreeably. “A few months ago I would never have believed it. But that was before I met you, Caitlin.”

“Save your infernal blather. For once in your life, tell the truth. Just what are you about?”

“First, marrying you. Second, taking you to London. And third, returning to Clonmuir, preferably before it falls to ruins for lack of a chieftain.”

“London? What the devil is this about London?”

“It’s our destination.”

“I won’t go. Hammersmith will punish the people of Clonmuir.”

“He will not. I’ve ensured Hammersmith’s cooperation.”

“I trust no
Sassenach.
You least of all.”

He took her hand firmly and led her to a settle which ran beneath the stern windows. The trading vessel rode deeply in Galway Bay, her holds crammed with spoils from raids on Irish towns and strongholds. “Caitlin, you must stop playing the rebel long enough to listen.”

She tossed back her tangled hair. It hadn’t seen a comb since the day Wesley had pirated the hooker and kidnapped her. “I’m listening.”

His eyes deepened with an emotion she could not fathom. “I came to Ireland in the secret service of the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell.”

She leapt up in a fury, her hands forming fists. “I knew it! You sneaking
seonin,
I should have—”

He grabbed her wrists. “You’re supposed to be listening.”

She pushed his hands away and glared at him.

“My task was to find the leader of the Fianna and bring his head to Cromwell.”

Sheer terror streaked through Caitlin. She did not allow so much as a tremor to betray her. “I see,” she said coldly. “And you think to be amusing yourself by making me your wife, and then yourself a widower.”

“Of course not. Now look. Cromwell wants you stopped, and he sent me to do it. If I fail, he’ll find another assassin who lacks my scruples.”

“You have no scruples. You’re a lying, cheating—”

“My lies will save your neck. I have Cromwell’s sworn statement that neither he nor his agents will bring harm to any of my kin.”

“You have kin?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and gave her a look of soul-deep pain she did not want to see.

“I doubt you do.” She forced out the insult. “You probably crawled from beneath a rock somewhere.”

His gaze shifted. In nervousness? she wondered.

“I thought it prudent to word the statement so as to include any of my kin.”

“And why are you so afraid for your own life that you would compel the devil to swear such a thing?”

“Because I had been condemned to die for my papist activities. Cromwell’s Secretary of State literally snatched me from Tyburn Tree.” Absently he touched his neck. She recalled the fading marks she had seen there when she had bathed him.

“So that’s how it is,” she said. “Cromwell promised you your life in exchange for mine.” At least she understood him now. But that didn’t mean she had to like him any better.

“Don’t you see, Caitlin? Marriage is a way to solve both our problems.”

And a way, she thought bleakly, to shatter the dream I have cherished in my heart for four years. When she thought of Alonso coming for her only to find her married to an Englishman, she wanted to weep. Yet even in her grief she recognized the humanity of Hawkins’s scheme. He could have simply killed her. Most Englishmen would have.

“Assume I agree to this farce. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Marriages between English and Irish have been outlawed.”

“Titus Hammersmith made the same point. However, the marriage will be perfectly legal so long as it takes place at sea. An interesting loophole, is it not?”

“This is absurd. How can you think that marriage will transform me into some submissive Englishman’s wife—”

“Who says I want a submissive wife, Cait?”

“—and stop Cromwell from doing his worst?”

He gripped her arms. “Damn it, I have to believe that.”

Disconcerted by his urgency, she pulled back. “And do you really think I’ll cease to fight the Roundheads?”

“You’ve tested your luck too often. You’ve challenged fate and won. But one day it will have to end. One day you’ll be stopped by force if you don’t stop on your own. We’ll find a safer way to resist the Roundheads.”

“We? You speak as if you intend to come back to Clonmuir.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Why?”

“Because England is not my country anymore. Cromwell has failed to keep the peace. He’s taken freedom away from good men and women. We’re at war with Spain, with the Netherlands, probably with France, too. I tried my damnedest to help King Charles back to the throne, but it’s not working.”

“And why should I be after caring about Charles Stuart? No English monarch has treated fairly with Ireland. Henry the Eighth gave us his bastard son as a leader. Elizabeth outlawed our faith. King James gave our lands to foreigners. Charles the First forgot we existed except to collect taxes. Why should I expect fairness from a new king?”

“Can anyone short of the devil himself do worse for Ireland than Cromwell has done?”

Painful hope rose inside her. “You seem to have switched loyalties.”

He pulled her close, pressed his lips to her hair. “Aye, Cait. So it seems.”

She let him hold her for a moment, enjoying against all reason the comforting feel of his arms around her. “Why go to England at all? Why do you not simply disappear into the countryside or take ship for the colonies?”

“I have to return to London.”

She drew herself out of his arms. “Why?” she repeated.

New pain flickered in his eyes. “I’m bound by my word.”

She turned to the stern windows and stared across the bay. In the distance wallowed a great hulk. Boatloads of people were being rowed to the huge ship. Caitlin squinted through a glare of sunlight. A feeling of dread curled in her gut. “Blessed Mary,” she whispered. “Those are women. Where are they going? Tell me. I demand to know.”

“They’re being transported to the Barbados to help populate the island.”

“As slaves, you mean.” She pressed her hand to her throat and prayed she would not be sick. But she nearly retched, for the thought of all those young women, ripped from their homes and families, made her ill.

She swung to face Hawkins. “I hate all English. You’d be miserable as my husband.”

“I’m no stranger to misery.”

“I will not marry you.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No proper priest would ever consent to this farce.”

“Father Tully agrees with me wholly.”

“That’s a lie.”

Before she knew what was happening, he drew her close. “You will marry me, Caitlin MacBride.”

“Never.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll never see Clonmuir again.”

A cold shiver passed through her. “That, Mr. Hawkins, would kill me. Believe it.”

“And then where would Clonmuir be? Tom Gandy alone cannot act as chieftain. Your father was no leader. Clonmuir will fall to ruins.” He gestured at the hulk, the women lining the rails. “Your friends would probably be transported—those who didn’t die defending their freedom.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. She had no choice. No
choice.
This English scoundrel had trapped her like a vixen in a snare.

Eleven

M
r. Hopewell, captain of the merchantman
Mary Constant,
always traveled with his wife. Younger than Caitlin and childless, the lady warbled like a lark at daybreak as she bustled around the stateroom.

“We’ll surprise everyone for certain, oh my, yes. Here, the bath’s ready and I’ll just find something for you to wear.”

Caitlin stood in her shift in the hip bath. The fresh, scented water felt heavenly, and she wished the bath were big enough to immerse her entire body.

“Here’s a silk velvet.” Mrs. Hopewell pulled a garment from a chest. “It will look stunning on you, oh my, yes. See?” The orange confection, bubbling with lace and bows, resembled a floral arrangement rather than a dress.

“I’ll be after wearing my own clothes, thank you.” Caitlin bent to dip her hair in the water.

“Oh, but you mustn’t. Your—er, what is this thing called?”

“Kirtle.”

“Your kirtle is simply in tatters.” She drew out another dress, this one yellow and black. The
Mary Constant
carried a seemingly endless supply of clothing and furnishings, some seized from the Irish and others confiscated from the English settlers who had embraced the cause of Irish independence. “You can’t go to your own wedding looking like a beggar woman.”

Caitlin scowled. It would serve Hawkins right if she did. “Mrs. Hopewell,” she said, her voice cool but polite. “Those are English fashions. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m proud to dress as an Irishwoman.”

“Like it or not, Miss MacBride, you are an English subject about to become an Englishman’s wife.”

Scrubbing furiously at her hair, Caitlin winced. “Other conquered people submit to the ways of their aggressors,” she said. “That’s not true of the Irish. The English who came here under Elizabeth adopted our ways, our culture, our mode of dress. Now they’re as Irish as a singing harp. Many of them are fighting Cromwell alongside their Celtic hosts.” She scooped water over her hair. “I’ll go to this marriage dressed as my mother went to hers, as her mother before her did.”

But I will not have willingness in my heart as they did, she thought bleakly.

Under her breath, the little woman muttered, “Stubborn as Mr. Hopewell on the Sabbath day. Perhaps there’s something...” She opened another chest. “These come from Castle Kellargh.”

“Spoils of war.” The words stung with the bile of distaste.

“I’m afraid so. But the Irish put up a fierce resistance. The army had no choice but to devastate the area. They poisoned the wells, burned fields and houses.”

Caitlin fixed her hostess with a piercing stare. “And did it ever occur to you that the army left women and children homeless and starving?” She indicated the chest. “And naked?”

Mrs. Hopewell held her ground. “War is an ugliness. Innocent victims suffer. I pray that one day your countrymen will capitulate and adopt English ways.”

“And why should we let our self-rule be taken away, our very faith outlawed? You’re bound to be disappointed, Mrs. Hopewell. For as fervently as you pray for capitulation, we Irish plot to drive you from our shores.”

Mrs. Hopewell’s hand fluttered to her brow. “This discussion makes my head ache. I’ll never understand you Irish. Never. Just wear whatever you like, then.”

Wrapping herself in a towel, Caitlin stepped from the tub. With her heart in her throat, she inspected the plunder. To wear garments seized from blameless Irishwomen gave her pause. But wouldn’t the owners of the clothes prefer to see their lovely things adorning the MacBride rather than a London lady?

Certain of the answer, she picked up a garment so uncompromisingly Irish that it could only have belonged to a noble countrywoman. “This will do,” she said.

* * *

Wesley stood amidships on the
Mary Constant,
awaiting his bride.

A sharp wind howled in from the northwest, filled the canvas, and sang in the rigging. The ship cut a wake through muscled waves the color of smelted iron.

The wind snatched at his broad-brimmed hat. He jammed it down firmly on his head. In Galway he had bought the fine, plumed cavalier’s chapeau along with a suit of clothes an exiled courtier would envy: cuffed boots, blousy fawn breeches cinched at the waist by his broad belt, a padded doublet and a buff coat of tough leather with shoulders so wide he could hardly fit through the portals of the ship. Freshly washed with soap scented by ambergris, his hair flowed like a gleaming russet cloak down his back.

He stood with his unlikely ally, Father Tully, his uneasy host, Captain Hopewell, and his unwelcome chaperon, MacKenzie.

“Fine day for a wedding,” Father Tully said, clapping his chapped hand.

“Lovely,” muttered Wesley. God! What was he thinking of? In order to marry Caitlin, he had blackmailed Titus Hammersmith and threatened Caitlin herself. What madness to gamble their lives and Laura’s, too.

But the alternative was executing Caitlin and taking her head in a bag to Cromwell. The very idea nearly sent Wesley stumbling to the rail to spill his guts into the Celtic Sea.

The marriage would mean exile for him and Laura at Clonmuir. Wesley could not think of a place in the world he would rather live.

A nasal screech seared his ears.

Hammersmith’s man, MacKenzie, gave a seraphic smile. Under his arm he held the bloated bladder of a bagpipe. “Wouldna be a weddin’ without a tune or twa,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. It was a great prow of a nose, painted purple and red by the broken veins of an inveterate tippler.

Hopewell’s brows pinched together. “With that?”

“Oh, aye. Nothin’ like the fine skirl of the auld pipes, eh, Father?”

Father Tully gave a noncommittal cough.

Wesley eyed the man with interest. Stout, bowlegged, and thick-headed, MacKenzie was as Scottish as Charles Stuart.

“’Tis said the pipes were actually invented by the Irish,” MacKenzie explained. “D’ye ken the legend, Father?”

“Aye, the Irish invented the contraption as a joke, and gave it to the Scots. But the dour Scots never caught on.”

Neither, apparently, did MacKenzie. With a flatulent blast, he launched into an earsplitting melody.

In the midst of the cacophony, and in a swirl of salt smoke from a breaking wave, Wesley’s bride emerged from a portal.

The men fell silent. The pipes whined to a halt. And John Wesley Hawkins whispered, “Help me, Jesus.”

Caitlin paced slowly toward him. She wore the most extraordinary costume he had ever beheld. A tunic, white as a summer cloud, cloaked her from throat to ankle. Open-worked sleeves hugged her slim arms. Polished stones and iron studs adorned the belt that cinched her tiny waist. The large oversleeves, scalloped at the cuffs, brushed the planks as she walked. A circlet of silver crowned her head while her unbound hair flowed out like a banner of gold behind her.

She might have stepped from the pages of a legend, so strange, so ethereal, and so lethally Irish was she. She was a part of some savage druidic rite. She was a warrior, a goddess. On bare feet she mounted the steps. Her face was a study of solemn melancholy as if she were a virgin making her way to a sacrificial altar. Sadness haunted the amber wells of her eyes. Vulnerability softened the corners of her mouth. She looked as if becoming his wife were eternal damnation.

He wanted to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for forcing her. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her for making him feel like a scoundrel. He wanted to crush her in a fierce embrace and vow to bring her joy.

Half expecting her to drift away on a wisp of wind, he took her hand. Together they knelt. Her fingers were icy and rough, her hand small, trembling inside his. It was a hand that wielded a sword against England, that soothed Tom Gandy’s fevered brow, that passed out food to the hungry. It was the hand of Ireland.

Father Tully cleared his throat and stood before them, his feet planted wide for balance against the surging motion of the deck.

He made the sign of the cross.
“In nomine patris et filii...”
And then, as the wind shoved them toward England, as cormorants flew screaming through the clouds, and as the hard planks of an English frigate pressed into their knees, John Wesley Hawkins and Caitlin MacBride became husband and wife.

* * *

“You might as well talk to me, Cait,” Wesley said that night. “We’ll be sharing these close quarters until we reach London.”

She presented her narrow, rigid back to him. Her wavy hair swung, thick and lustrous, to her waist. He imagined burying his face and hands in the silken mantle, feeling it drift across his naked chest and inhaling its wonderful fragrance. He imagined lifting it away from the nape of her neck and pressing his lips to the tender flesh hidden there.

Tortured by yearning, he tossed back a swallow of sack and clapped his pewter goblet on the table. From above decks came the incessant yowl of MacKenzie’s pipes, bleating and farting and gasping for breath. The sailors, glad for any excuse to drink away the tedium of the voyage, had stopped protesting the noise hours ago and now joined in the discord.

As an agent of Cromwell, Wesley had been granted special privileges. The quarters were comfortable, low ceilinged but broad, and furnished with an alcove bunk and a bolted-down table. Sighing, Wesley moved behind her. He touched her tense shoulders, his hands patiently kneading her tightened muscles.

“We will make this marriage work,” he whispered. “It can mean a new start for us and for Clonmuir. In our children will mix the blood of Briton and Celt, of—”

“Stop!” She jerked away. “I may have had to marry you to save my neck, but I don’t have to pretend we have a future together.”

“’Tis done, Caitlin, and not even your stubbornness can undo this marriage.”

She turned to him, defiance flashing in her eyes. “The English have taken our homes and our lands. Your laws forbid skilled men to ply their trades. Your soldiers burn our fields and rape our women. You snatch unsuspecting girls from their families and transport them to a hellhole where they’ll be slaves to the devil.”

“None of that is my doing.”

She shook her fist. “But this is. You think to conquer me by forcing this marriage. It won’t work.”

“It must, or you’ll die at Cromwell’s hands.” He took her arm. She resisted, but he pulled her toward the bed. His rampant imagination conjured an image of her lying there, arms open to receive him.

A sprig of hawthorne peeped from beneath the feather bolster. Small damp spots dotted the bleached linen sheets.

“Father Tully has blessed the marriage bed with holy water. He approves of the union.”

“You must have threatened him, too.”

“No,” said Wesley in a low, rough voice. “To him, I told the truth. That I had no true vocation as a priest. He released me from my vows.”

She stared at the slanting floor. “Wesley.” She spoke so softly that he thought he might have imagined hearing his name on her tongue.

He brushed his finger along her cheek. “Aye?”

“I’m asking you, too, to release me from my vow.”

A coldness formed around his heart. “I can’t do that.” To his utter chagrin, he felt a hot tear drop onto his finger. “This doesn’t have to be such a tragedy.”

With the swiftness of a recoiling spring, she drew back. Anger danced with the tears in her eyes. “Did you never wonder, you great fool, why I hadn’t married?”

The coldness in his heart became an icy burn. “I didn’t dare wonder for fear of spoiling my good fortune.”

“I was waiting for the man I love,” she flung at him. “I would have waited seven lifetimes.”

The words stunned Wesley, stealing his breath. Long ago, he had considered the possibility and discounted it. Now the truth assaulted him like a rapier thrust.

“Who is it?” His voice was knife sharp with jealousy.

“He is Spanish, and highborn, and I’ll not profane his good name by revealing it to the likes of you.”

“Ha!” Wesley forced out the bluff exclamation. “Now
you’re
the one with pixies in your head. Name him, or I’ll know you conjured him out of wishful thinking.”

With an angry swipe of her hand, she dashed the tears from her face. “He is Alonso Rubio, son of the grand duke of Alarcón.”

Part of the Spanish ambassador’s retinue, Rubio resided in London and worshipped at the Catholic chapel Cromwell allowed for foreign dignitaries. Like a man wounded in the dark, Wesley probed his memory. He recalled a slim, courtly gentleman of astonishing beauty and graceful demeanor. Everything John Wesley Hawkins was not.

“And how did you meet this paragon?” he demanded.

She tossed her head. “He was on a trading vessel bound for Connaught to take on timber. The ship stopped for refitting at Logan Rafferty’s yard in Galway.”

“He gave you the stallion, didn’t he?”

“Aye, and his promise to wed me, to help me defend Clonmuir.”

And what did you give him in return?
Wesley choked off the question. Instead, he snorted rudely. “And you believed him?”

“Unlike you, he doesn’t make his living by lying.”

Wesley poured more wine. He needed courage for the task ahead. It was no longer simply a matter of winning her heart. First he had to drive out the dark Spanish hero who dwelt there.

But not for nothing had he been a cavalier. Caitlin had thrown down the gauntlet. With grim determination and pounding anticipation he took up the challenge.

“Four years is a long time, my love. I’d never let you wait so long. How can you be certain he’s been true to you?”

“He sends letters, when he can, and I answer them. Every single one.” She enunciated each word clearly.

Wesley recalled his last meeting with Cromwell. The Lord Protector had referred to a letter from Caitlin to a Spanish gentleman. “Your tender missives,” he said bitterly, “betrayed you. Cromwell intercepted at least one of them.”

Her face paled, but the anger burned steadily in her eyes. “Sure isn’t it the English who have forced hardships on us,” she retorted. “If we were at peace, my life could go on.”

“Life,” he said, sinking to one knee before her, “is what has been happening to you during all those years of waiting.” Intent on banishing the Spaniard from her thoughts, he took her hand and carried it to his lips. She bent her head, and the rich, untamed waves of her hair shone with reflected lamplight.