The Maid of Ireland (35 page)

He shrugged, the chain of office moving on his shoulders. “The Council decrees that you are to be hanged, drawn and quartered.”

Horror erupted in her brain. “You cannot harm me! You signed a statement protecting the kin of John Wesley Hawkins.”

“He broke faith with me!” Cromwell burst out. “I’m no longer under any obligation to him.”

“Faith, faith, faith,” Caitlin burst out. “I do not understand the word anymore. Whose faith, yours or God’s? And which God, yours or Wesley’s?”

“You add blasphemy to your crimes, woman!”

Caitlin stared implacably at the Lord Protector, noting with distaste the bulbous shape of his ruby nose, noting with a tremor of fear the bright cruelty in his eyes. Yet her mind wandered far away.

Back to Ireland. Back to Wesley.

She should have trusted him. She should have believed her own heart that told her he would never, ever betray her.

During the long days of the voyage to London, she had pieced together the truth. Wesley never meant to give the horses to Hammersmith. He and the men of Clonmuir had planned an ambush.

The raid would have worked if she had not interfered and gotten herself captured.

Wesley, why didn’t you tell me?

Because she would not have trusted him. Too late, she knew the truth. Too late, she knew she loved him. Had loved him from that first spellbound moment when she had wished for him on a white rose. She adored him with a painful, pitiless intensity that mocked every naive idea she had ever had about the love between a man and a woman.

Now their love would never have a chance to flower. And that was the greatest tragedy of all.

Her hand came up to touch the healing bruise just below her collarbone. Wesley’s arrow had struck the breastplate beneath her tunic. The impact had knocked her off her feet but the injury had been slight.

No doubt Wesley believed he had slain her. Another tragedy that would never be resolved.

“...no reason at all to delay carrying out the sentence,” Cromwell was saying.

Caitlin dragged her mind to the present. “When?” she forced herself to ask.

“Tomorrow.” He refilled both their wine cups.

Caitlin’s fingers sneaked again into the folds of the rough shift she wore. She felt the vial and remembered Bull’s words.

You won’t want to endure the torture,
he had whispered, his large, blunt-featured face alight with a twisted compassion.
Spare yourself the agony with Dr. Bate’s remedy.
Bull had instructed her to dissolve the powder in a cup of liquid. One sip alone would rob him of his duty.

Her soul recoiled at the thought of taking her own life. But the brutal alternative brought her to a decision.

She dropped to her knees in front of Cromwell. “Please, Your Highness,” she pleaded, although the words tasted as sour as vomit in her mouth. “I beg you, spare me!” She pressed the hem of his cloak to her lips. “For the love of God, please!” She caught at the chain of office that spanned his shoulders.

He shoved her back. The chain came loose and fell to the floor. “Groveling ill becomes an Irish chieftain. Sit down!”

She meekly obeyed.

He bent to retrieve the chain.

She unstopped the vial and dashed the contents into her wine cup. Her unsteady hand made the vial clink against the rim of the cup. She winced, certain he would notice. But as he groped around on the floor, the powder fizzed briefly; then the granules disappeared. She tucked the empty vial back into the pocket of her apron.

Cromwell straightened, scowling at the broken link of the chain. “Hawkins should have heeded me, by God. Now he’ll lose all. All!” Gaining control of himself, he feigned a regretful look. “Pity about the child, though.”

Shock slammed into Caitlin’s chest. “Child? What child?”

“Did he not tell you about Laura?” A mysterious smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I must’ve scared him more than I thought.” He rubbed his chin. “Still, that would be like Hawkins, not wanting to use her to manipulate your sympathies—as if there were any such thing in your heathen soul.”

Swallowing back apprehension, she asked, “Who is Laura?”

“Why, his poor little daughter. Nigh on four years old, she is, darling mite. In his preaching days he dragged the child on his treacherous errands, passing her off as an orphan and himself as a priest, when his true purpose was to incite the people against me. Poor little motherless mite. When Hawkins was arrested, he entrusted her to a godly woman who had the wisdom to bring the girl directly to me.”

“Arrested?” The information was coming too fast at her. For a moment she forgot the dread contents of her wine cup. “Wesley was arrested?”

“Aye, and sentenced to death. Funny, but he was to die as a priest, and he never really was one. He very nearly did die, but I found a way for him to serve the Commonwealth.”

Suddenly all became clear to Caitlin. Shadows of doubt and mistrust were swept away by brilliant rays of truth and comprehension. “To stop the Fianna,” she concluded bitterly. “That was why he obeyed you. Because you held his daughter hostage.”

Filled with fresh misery, Caitlin buried her face in her sleeves and pressed hard to hold back the tears. Wesley had been pledged to the Church. And yet he had fathered a child.

Motherless, Cromwell had said. But who had the woman been? Wife? Mistress? Had he loved her? More mysteries, thought Caitlin. More unanswered questions.

She heard Cromwell lift his cup, then set it back on the table. Remembering her purpose, she raised her head from her arms. “And what,” she asked cuttingly, “do you have in store for the child? Torture for her as well?”

“It suits your narrow view to see a monster in me,” Cromwell shot back. “I, who brought order to chaos.” He clasped his hands as if wrestling his own anger. “In truth,” he began calmly, “I’ve taken a liking to the babe. The good widow Clench is raising Laura up properly now. Now that Bettie’s gone, I shall have to think further about Laura’s place in my life.”

Dear God, thought Caitlin, I have cost Wesley his child.

She grabbed the stem of her goblet. She was about to commit the ultimate sin, the sin for which there could be no redemption—to condemn her own soul to eternal damnation.

No. Damnation was giving in to Oliver Cromwell. Damnation was never being able to tell Wesley again that she loved him.

With a strange smile on his face, Cromwell lifted his goblet. “A toast, is it?” he asked, his voice full of irony.

Caitlin smiled back. “If my soul doesn’t go to heaven, then at least may it come to rest in Ireland.”

Cromwell laughed. “I’d sooner burn in hell.” He drained his glass.

“More’s the pity for you, sir.” Caitlin clasped an image of Wesley to her heart, said a silent prayer, and drank to the bottom of the goblet.

Eighteen

W
esley faced Logan Rafferty across the round table in the hall at Clonmuir. Rafferty slammed his gloved hand on the table with a resounding thump. “Damn you, Hawkins. This hellbent raiding has got to stop!”

Their gazes clashed; gray ice met black fire. “Why, my lord?” Wesley asked with the venom of sarcasm in his voice. “Is it interfering with your English alliance?”

Gasps rose from the people in the hall. Rafferty’s nostrils flared. His ruddy face darkened two shades. “Sure that’s a foul accusation,
seonin.
”

“You told Caitlin what you thought we were about with the horses,” Wesley stated. “My wife would be alive were it not for your treachery.”

Logan’s dark red flush drained into his beard. “You lie, Englishman!”

“It’s God’s truth and no mistake,” said a small, tremulous voice from the middle of the hall. “I heard him tell her.” Logan swung around just as Aileen Breslin clapped her hand over the mouth of young Brigid.

“The females of Clonmuir start their busybody ways at a tender age,” Logan snarled. He turned back, spreading his arms wide. “And how was I to be knowing what you’d planned? Sure it looked to any man as if you were going to hand over the horses.”

“How did you know anything of the plan in the first place?” Wesley demanded. “No one here told you.”

“It is my business to know such things.”

“Your business is with Titus Hammersmith. He’s the one who told you.” Each damning word dropped like a cold stone from Wesley’s lips.

Logan went completely still, save for the agitated rising and falling of his massive chest. “You fling me a direct challenge,
Sassenach.
” Very deliberately, he sank his teeth into the middle finger of his leather gauntlet and tugged, baring his hand with its heavy Celtic rings.

He struck Wesley across the face with the glove. The stinging slap to his pride resounded in the silence of the hall. Bellowing an oath, Wesley sprang from the bench. Rory and Liam grabbed Wesley’s arms to keep him from throttling Rafferty where he stood.

Logan’s challenging gaze streaked over Wesley. “Choose your weapon. I’ll choose the time and place.”

Wesley hesitated, his gaze sweeping the residents and refugees who populated the hall. They depended on him now. He had to temper his desire for revenge with their need for peace in the district.

While Wesley debated his options, Curran Healy burst through the main door. Pale faced, his hair coated with mist, he skidded to a stop at the high table. Wesley took one look at the youth’s round, frightened eyes and forgot Logan Rafferty. “What news from Galway, Curran?”

“’Tis Titus Hammersmith, sir. He’s back from England.”

An iron fist of hatred closed in Wesley’s stomach. “And?”

Curran knotted his fingers. “He’s brought reinforcements. L-lots of ’em. Sir, he plans to lay siege to Clonmuir.”

* * *

In the Tower of London, they were alone. The Lord Protector of England and the MacBride of Clonmuir. Caitlin stared across the table at Oliver Cromwell and waited for the poison to sear her insides. She braced herself for the sharp griping pain in her gut, the thickening of her tongue, the pounding in her head.

But so far the only poison she felt was the lethal evil of hatred. She decided to tell him so; for herself, and for all the people of Ireland.

“You are a great, bad man,” she stated. “’Tis you who deserves to die, not me. Your English justice mocks the Republican ideals you claim to embrace.”

“Impertinent wench.” Sweat pearled on his brow even though the thick walls of the room held in the chill.

“You call yourself Lord Protector, but whom have you protected? Widows and orphans? There are plenty of those in Ireland, for you’ve killed all the men.”

He mopped his brow. “It’s called war,” he said, irony heavy in his voice.

She gave a bark of laughter. “I’ve seen babies spitted on English pikes. I’ve seen women forced to eat the flesh of rotting corpses just to keep from starving. You claim the Irish as your subjects, but look me in the eye and tell me you’ve protected them.”

His wary gaze met hers. Dampness shone on his pasty face. “You Irish rebelled. You deserve no mercy!”

“You call yourself God’s Englishman, and yet you have the blood of thousands on your hands. You are the father of all murders and treacheries. You took away our priests; you’ll burn in hell for that. Cursed be every breath you take, Oliver Cromwell, to the very last of your days!”

Cromwell lurched to his feet. “You’re a witch! By God—” His face contorted, his eyes bulging. A low, strangled cry rumbled from his throat. He dropped like a felled tree to the floor. A rusty mutter escaped his lips. His body stiffened, back arching and limbs trembling.

Caitlin watched, gratified that she’d struck a chord of conscience in the English monster. An instant later, though, foreboding tiptoed over her. She snatched both wine cups and held them to the light from the brazier.

Her goblet shone clean. In Cromwell’s cup, tiny grains clung to the sides.

“Sweet Mary Mother of God,” she whispered. “The devil drank the poison.” Cromwell had guessed correctly about the poisoning, but, ever suspicious, he had thought the powder had gone into his own drink. Thinking to outsmart her, he had switched the goblets.

In horror—and a fierce, undeniable sense of satisfaction—she backed away from the sick, convulsing man.

Running to the door, she found it locked.

Her mind worked feverishly. What would she do if she were discovered alone here with the Lord Protector of England dead at her feet?

She heard a sound from outside. It was the click of a key tumbling a lock.

* * *

Six wheel-mounted heavy cannon trundled through the deserted village of Clonmuir. The inhabitants had all fled to the stronghold. In the near silence of a ceaseless hissing rain, the Roundheads dug trenches out of range of Irish crossbows.

Wesley watched in dread and frustration as Englishmen carried stout pavises to shield the gun crews from Irish bolts and arrows. Their fiercest weapons were rendered useless, as useless as hoping they had a chance. The men of Clonmuir had, in lightning raids, felled scores of Englishmen. But for each man eliminated, more came to take his place. The stronghold was surrounded save for the portion that faced the sea. By that route, Wesley had sent the women and children and horses to Brocach. Logan Rafferty had proven himself faithless, but his wife Magheen was a MacBride. She would care for the refugees.

The men waited in sodden silence. The mantle of leadership weighed heavy on Wesley’s shoulders. Then the English guns spoke.

The walls of Clonmuir started to crumble.

* * *

Her heart hammered, but Caitlin planted her feet, held her head high and waited. She would make no excuses, offer no denials.

The cell door swung open. Her remorseless stare greeted the visitor.

And then an astonished smile lit her face. A handsome cavalier’s hat, with plumes nodding over a familiar elfin face, reached just to her waist.

“Tom!” The jubilant cry burst from her. She bent and hugged him.

“Hist there!” he said. “No time for that, though sure I’m hard to resist. Come away with me, Caitlin, and quickly.” He gave a cursory glance at Cromwell who lay, moaning softly, on the floor. “What ails him?”

“Crimes against Ireland,” she said curtly. “And his own distrust. Can we get past the guards?”

He lifted one eyebrow. Fatigue deepened the folds of his eyes. “Can the poteen get past the tonsils of an Irishman?” He grabbed her hand and drew her into the stairwell.

The hulking figure of the executioner; Thaddeus Bull, stood there. At his feet lay the personal lifeguards of the Lord Protector. The huge man loomed over the unconscious guards. He did not look at Caitlin as he spoke. “I never could abide the torturing of women,” he explained. “Hurry now, I’d best get the Lord Protector to a physick. The way’s clear to the river.”

“Bless you, sir.” Caitlin hastened down the stairs after Tom. “The Tower of London is the last place I’d expect to find a decent Englishman.”

Tom mopped his brow. “Lord, it took half the ale in London and most of the stories I know to get that great ox to cooperate.”

Moments later they leapt into a lighter boat and rowed out to the middle of the inky Thames. The stale smell of river water hung in the air.

“Tom,” she asked, when at last she dared to believe she was free, “how did you come to be here?”

“It’s a long story,
a stor.
”

“Magic, Tom?”

His eyes gleamed like fairy fire in the darkness. “So you’re after believing in magic again?”

“I do now,” she said fervently. In her mind’s eye she saw a beautiful man, walking toward her out of the sunset. She heard the smooth music of his voice, felt the tender caress of his smiling regard, and the devastating joy of his embrace. Wesley. Please, God, don’t let us be too late.

She put her hands on Tom’s arm, stopping him in midstroke. “Tom, wait. Cromwell told me that Wesley has a daughter. We can’t leave London without her. I’d never forgive myself if we did. She’s the reason he did...all that he did.” She watched Tom closely, expecting a shocked reaction.

He merely patted her hand. “Not to worry. I know all about the wee girleen.”

A familiar sense of wonder swept over her. “Magic again?”

“Give me a little credit for brains and cunning, Caitlin.”

“Well, how can we find Laura?”

“She’s waiting with a good Catholic lady at Milford Haven. That port’s just fourteen miles from our dear Ireland.”

Caitlin took the oars and threw all her energy into rowing. They passed freight barges laden with bundled goods, small skiffs tugging at their cables, punts docked along the quays for the night. Lanterns on poles made bright pools on the surface of the water. “You’re a sorcerer.”

“If I were that, we’d be at Milford Haven already. As it is, we’ve a long hard ride ahead of us.”

* * *

“Are we there yet?”

The single-masted pinnace nosed up the west coast of Ireland. The vessel had been appropriated by Daisy Lane, Tom’s “good Catholic woman.” Daisy’s entire family had been seized by priest catchers. She had been left with nothing save her muscular two-hundred-pound body and a burning desire for revenge.

“Almost, Laura,” Caitlin said in answer to the question. She held Wesley’s daughter in her lap and wondered for the thousandth time at the miracle of her. Her stepdaughter. Saints in heaven, she was a mother. The idea ignited a queer ache in her chest.

No wonder the Lord Protector had been so taken with the child. Laura was astoundingly beautiful. Freckles dusted her creamy skin. Her rose-gold hair tumbled in waves down her back. Her great wide eyes reminded Caitlin so poignantly of Wesley that she nearly wept each time she looked at the girl.

Wesley’s love child. Daisy Lane had, through methods Caitlin preferred not to contemplate, wrested information from Laura’s former nurse. The child’s mother was Annabel Pym of Lincoln. The birth had killed Annabel, and her family had rejected the baby.

Holding Laura gave Caitlin a sense of kinship with the hapless Miss Pym. She felt no resentment, only determination to protect the child, to perform the duties Annabel hadn’t lived to fulfill.

Laura sniffed. “I’m cold.”

“I know,
a storin.
” Caitlin tucked a shawl more securely around the child.

“You talk funny.”

“So you’ve said. I talk like my mother and her mother before her, to the time before time.”

“I miss Uncle Oliver. He used to let me sit at the end of Miss Bettie’s bed while he read from the Good Book.”

Caitlin refused to contemplate the image of Oliver Cromwell, reading aloud to his dying daughter. “It’s a natural thing to miss the people who showed you kindness.” Caitlin had to force out the words.

Laura poked out her lower lip. “Are we there yet?” she asked again.

Caitlin handed her a bit of biscuit. “Soon, sweet girleen. You’ll be with your daida soon.”

“My what?”

“Your papa.”

The tiny chin trembled. “Auntie Clench and Uncle Oliver said he was a papist who dragged me through the mires of sin. They said I’d never have to go with him again.”

“That was wrong of them,” Caitlin said gently.

“But they said—”

Caitlin gave her a gentle shake. “Sometimes grown-up people tell lies. You were lied to about your papa. He didn’t drag you through the mires of sin. Surely you remember what your life with him was like.”

Laura chewed her lip thoughtfully, then brightened. “Oh, ’twas exciting sometimes! We played hide and seek, and I had to be very, very quiet. And I was never afraid of the dark.”

Caitlin smiled, knowing Wesley had made a game of hiding in priest holes and abandoned crofts. “There’ll be lots more fun times like that, sweetheart. Wait until you see the horses at Clonmuir. Your father and I will take you on a pony ride.”

“It’s been such a very long time,” Laura mused. “What if I don’t remember my papa? What if he doesn’t remember me?”

Caitlin rested her chin on the child’s head, delighting in the silky feel of her hair. Her daughter. “He has never forgotten you, Laura. He’s worked for months so you can be together. He loves you.” So much, she thought. So much that he had gone against his principles to do Cromwell’s bidding. So much, she thought with a wrench of pain, that he had feared to tell her about the child.

Because he had too much honor to force her to choose between his beloved child and her convictions. And because he did not trust her.

“And why should he be after trusting you?” Tom Gandy demanded as if she had spoken aloud. “You rebuffed him, denied him your heart.”

“I’ve changed,” Caitlin stated, with love rising like the sun in her heart. She kissed the top of Laura’s head. “We’ll be a family, and all will come right with us now.”

But as they rounded the rocky point, and Clonmuir hove into view, she felt a sense of dread so strong that she quivered in fear.

“The scourge of hell be upon us,” Tom muttered in Irish under his breath. A smudge of black smoke hovered in the clear blue sky over the keep, obscuring the watchtowers. Thunder rumbled across the water.