The Maid of Ireland (8 page)

* * *

Wesley led a score of mounted warriors northward. The darkness hung thick around them, and the urge to light one of the pitch torches they had brought along was voiced by more than one soldier.

Like the troops of cavalry, Wesley wore a buff coat of thick leather over back and breast armor, and the menacing iron headpiece which gave the Roundheads their name. In addition to the torches, they carried swords, pikes, and pistols.

The latent sense of decency that had driven him to the seminary at Douai tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. With an effort, he shrugged it off. Now was no time for scruples.

They came to a great spill of rocks that rolled down toward the lake. The horses balked and had to be led around the rockfall. Wesley paused to search for a sign. Squinting in the gloom, he studied the dead grass that grew in the crevices.

Before long he discovered a barely discernible depression in the mud, made by a small, broad foot. Christ, had the Irish enlisted children now?

An owl hooted a breath of song into the night. A badger rooted in the damp leaves.

“We’re going the wrong way,” muttered one of the men.

Wesley leaned down to inspect a gorse bush. One branch had recently been broken. “No, we’re not,” he said.

The hill rose to a ridge along the lake. The rocks formed a bowl around a small clearing, sharp peaks thrusting through the mist with a weird, stark beauty that captivated Wesley. For a moment he fancied himself gazing at a castle fashioned by giants. The lake lapped with a steady swish at the reedy shores.

And over all hung a thick, pervasive, unnatural quiet that Wesley didn’t like in the least. As he reached up to pluck a swatch of flaxen fabric from a low-hanging branch, he understood why. He straightened and turned, apprehension clutching at his belly.

His gaze darted over the area. Most of the Roundheads had descended to the clearing. Moonlight threw their shadows against the wall of rock opposite the lakeside. Directly ahead grew a thick forest, nearly as dark and impenetrable as the granite.

The wind keened across the lake, carrying the smell of fresh water and something else, a faint animal scent. Guiding his horse down from the ridge, he joined his companions.

“Well?” asked Ladyman.

“The trail’s too obvious,” said Wesley.

“Not to me,” said another soldier, scratching his brow beneath his round helm.

“They
want
us to follow them.”

“But why the devil would the bastards want that?” Ladyman demanded.

Another Roundhead uncorked a bottle and took a drink of beer. “Hammersmith’s nervous,” he said. “He’s starting to believe in all those heathen Irish superstitions.”

“I mislike this darkness,” a third man said, grabbing a bundle of torches and striking flint and steel.

“Douse that!” Wesley ordered furiously. “For God’s sake, you’ll give away our pos—”

But it was too late; the torch flared high, filling the air with the smell of pine pitch.

Ladyman reached for the beer bottle. “Let him comfort himself with it. I say the captain’s imagining things.”

“Did he imagine the shamrock?” Wesley challenged. “The shorn lock?”

Ladyman shrugged, his armor creaking. “I have a keen nose for the stink of Irish. I don’t think there’s an Irishman within miles of this place.”

“Fianna! Fianna e Eireann!”

The full-throated bellow burst from the darkness.

A rumble of hoofbeats pounded, the sound of a stampede out of control, coming at them from all sides. The man who had lit the torch fell, an arrow protruding from his neck. The bundle of torches caught fire, sizzling on the damp ground.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Ladyman, wheeling his horse back toward the ridge. “Jesus Christ!”

Wesley gripped the hilt of his sword. The blade hissed from its scabbard.

As one, the party started back in the direction they’d come. A company of black-clad horsemen blocked the way.

“To the woods!” Ladyman yanked his horse back around. He disappeared into the darkness. The other Englishmen drew swords and pistols.

“We’re surrounded!” Ladyman’s desperate cry drifted across the field as he reappeared.

The men on the ridge stood sentinel, fists raised, horses blowing mist into the moonlit night.

“Fianna!”

The shouts and hoofbeats drew nearer. An almost forgotten feeling rose inside Wesley. In a flash he recognized the taut sense of anticipation, the feel of the sword in his hand, the cold sense of purpose that closed over his soul.

John Wesley Hawkins was ready to do battle. At the seminary at Douai, the priests had taught him to abhor violence. Yet all those values were scrubbed away by the dark, pounding thrill of impending action.

For the past five years his battles had been fought in secret against an enemy he could not meet face-to-face. His only weapons had been words and deeds done in shadow. Now he rode with that very enemy as comrade.

But now, oh, now, he was about to pit himself, sword to sword, against a flesh-and-blood foe. That he had no particular quarrel with the Irish mattered little. His daughter’s life depended on defeating these wild warriors.

And defeat them he would. Unthinkingly he sketched the sign of the cross.

Ladyman gasped. “What the bloody hell—”

His words drowned in another flood of Gaelic shouting and galloping horses. Wesley’s gaze snapped from shadow to shadow at the fringe of the clearing. Their numbers too small to match the English, they had culled away this search party, ringing them on three sides and the ice-cold lake at their backs.

The Irish came like nightmares borne on a foul wind, black-clad and licked by firelight, their old-fashioned helms bobbing with the rhythm of their horses. All wore breastplates emblazoned with a golden harp, and many had veils flowing from their helms.

The Englishmen scattered. Gaelic shouts boomed across the field. The Irish ponies were more fleet and agile than the cavalry mounts.

A large Irishman on a thick-limbed pony galloped to the fore. Rafferty? Wesley wondered, admiring the man’s skill.

The warrior guided the horse with his knees alone. In one hand he held a short-handled ax, in the other, a large hammer. He swung the weapons with the ease of a reaper wielding a scythe. The hammer clapped against an English helm. The ax rived into an English breastplate. A hoarse bellow of agony rolled across the chill flat water.

Wesley rode toward the aggressor. If it were Rafferty, he must be stopped. Leaderless, the Fianna would scatter; lives would be spared.

The huge warrior on his dark horse spied Wesley. Sawing at the reins, he galloped across the uneven ground.

“Oh, my God,” Wesley whispered. His sweat condensed inside the round helm, flooding him with the rusty iron taste of fear.

The ax swung toward his head. Wesley ducked. “Jesus!” he yelled, wrestling his helm back in place.

Wheeling the horse, the warrior charged again. Wesley swerved. The motion carried him out of the saddle and onto the hard ground. His horse ran away in panic.

The warrior drew rein and turned for another charge.

Wesley grasped one of the torches. Running backward, he ducked the ax and hammer and retreated toward the lake.

Panting hollowly inside his helm, the warrior followed. Wesley waded in to his waist, his tender parts shrinking from the icy water. The bloody ax blade arced toward Wesley’s head.

At the last possible moment, in that cold slice of time that determines whether a man lives or dies, Wesley thrust the flaming torch at the horse’s face.

The beast skidded, splashing to a halt. The heavy rider pitched over the horse’s head and into the water. Wesley heard the dull snap of a breaking bone. The Irishman’s helm fell into the lake. In a blur, Wesley saw a mop of earth-colored hair. So his opponent hadn’t been Rafferty, after all.

The horse sidled away, its reins trailing. Wesley vaulted into the saddle. Leaving the Irishman floundering in his heavy armor, Wesley galloped the horse out of the lake and into the fray.

Some of the Roundheads had retreated into the water. Others made desperate attempts to flee into the woods. Two lay motionless on the ground. Those who remained had long since discharged their pistols and muskets, then flung them down, for they had no time to reload.

The Irish fought with lusty vigor, howling and singing in their ancient tongue.

Wesley rode toward them. An arrow buzzed past his head. Across the clearing sat a small man on a pony, nocking another arrow in a short bow. Wesley recalled the slit in Hammersmith’s tent; he’d lay odds he had found the culprit.

Several yards away, another Irishman fell. With relief and astonishment, Wesley realized the Gaels were flagging. For all their fierce bravado, their numbers were small.

He reined the horse toward another pocket of fighting. A motion caught his eye. He turned to see a warrior on a sleek horse sail across the clearing. Centaurlike, he rode with both hands free; one wielding a sword and the other a mace.

Wesley sensed a strange power in the horseman. Perhaps it was a trick of the uncertain firelight, but an aura seemed to hover about the warrior, drawing the eye and evoking a feeling of awe mixed with dread. The very sight of the warrior brought fresh war cries springing from the enemies’ throats.

Bending low over the horse’s neck, Wesley charged.

Lithe as a dancer, the leader of the Fianna guided the beautiful horse in an expertly carved loop. Wesley’s swinging sword hissed through empty air. The iron-spiked mace crashed against his shoulder.

Ignoring the numbness that spread down his arm, Wesley aimed the big Irish pony head-on at the willowy stallion. The beat of hooves kept pace with each quick-drawn breath. The smell of damp metal made his eyes water.

In a trick that had served him well in his cavalier days, he waited until the animals were nearly nose to nose, then hauled sharply on the reins.

The horse stopped while Wesley vaulted forward, wrapping his arms around the warrior, ripping his opponent out of the saddle and flinging them both to the wet ground.

The warrior had a small man’s quickness, twisting lithely beneath him, bringing his foot up toward Wesley’s groin.

Deflecting the strike with his own leg, Wesley grasped a flailing arm. Who
is
this? he wondered. Surely not the heavyset, broad-shouldered Logan Rafferty.

They tumbled and rolled, breath rasping and hands grappling for discarded weapons. Nearby, the pitch fire had risen to a roaring blaze. Heat lapped at Wesley’s back and singed the ends of his hair. Irish shouts and running feet sounded behind him, coming closer.

He slammed his opponent against the ground. A rush of breath flowed from behind the helm. The silk veil snagged on Wesley’s gauntlet. He heard a ripping noise and a metallic clatter as the helm came off and rolled away.

Wesley lifted his hand. One chop to the windpipe and—

“Good God Almighty!” The words burst from him on a flood of astonishment. Lying beneath him, awaiting the death blow, with tawny hair framing a savagely lovely face, was Caitlin MacBride.

Five

S
he stared at him, frozen by awe and disbelief. Her eyes were mirrors of fury, reflecting the blaze of the fire. Her mouth worked soundlessly; then a furious cry burst from her: “Seize him!”

Strong arms jerked him backward. A blunt object clubbed his hand. Dull, cold pain shot up his arm. Fingers gripped his hair and yanked his head back, baring his throat.

“Move back, my lady,” someone said, “else you’ll soon be soiled by English blood.” A blade flashed in the firelight.

The tendons in Wesley’s throat stretched to the point of snapping and tickled in anticipation of the slice of the blade.

“No!” Caitlin scrambled to her feet and grabbed the drawn-back arm. “We’ll spare this one. For now.” Bending gracefully, she retrieved her helm and shook out the veil.

The pressure on Wesley’s neck eased, enabling him to take in the scene. The English had been routed. A few floundered in the lake. Three sprawled on the ground. He recognized Ladyman, horseless, melting into the shadows. The rest, presumably, had fled. Some of the Irish moved across the firelit field, gathering discarded weapons, catching riderless horses, and stripping the corpses of their valuables.

“Spare him?” asked Wesley’s captor. It was Rory Breslin; Wesley recognized the deep rumble of the Gael’s voice.

“Why the devil should we be sparing an English spy?” the big warrior asked. “We never have before. And this
Sassenach
stole into our stronghold and tried to learn our secrets.”

Caitlin tucked her helm under her arm. Her endless legs, lovingly hugged by tight leather trews beneath a short tunic, took her on a wide, unhurried circle around Wesley. She regarded him like a trader sizing up an inferior bit of horseflesh.

“He interests me,” she stated. “I should like to know why he entered my household under false pretenses and lied to us.”

“But the man almost killed you. It’s the closest anyone’s ever come to—”

“Nevertheless, perhaps he’s of more use to us alive than dead. A spy as bold as this one might be worth something to Hammersmith.”

Someone tossed the reins of the black to her. “Bind him and give me the rope,” she ordered. Then, for the first time, she spoke directly to Wesley. “You’ve a long march ahead of you, my good friend.” Her very words made a mockery of the moments they had shared at Clonmuir. “I do hope you’ll cooperate.”

As Rory bound his wrists so tightly his fingers went numb, Wesley resisted the impulse to wince. He made a parody of a courtly bow. “My lady, your wish is my command.”

She curled her lip in distaste. Yet in her firelit eyes he saw a brief wistfulness. “I knew there was no more magic in Ireland,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

An ache of regret flared in Wesley’s chest. He had come to Ireland to romance secrets out of Caitlin MacBride and to destroy the chieftain of the Fianna. Instead, he had managed to get himself captured. And in unraveling the tangle he had made of things, he would have to hurt her.

If she didn’t kill him first. She swung into the saddle. He had never seen anyone, male or female, move with her grace, her movements as fluid as a mountain stream spilling over rocks. Her center on the horse was faultless, her posture perfect, all the more astonishing because he knew he had bruised her badly.

“God forgive me for hurting a woman,” he muttered.

She jerked the rope that bound him. “What did you say, Englishman?”

“I never would have attacked you if I’d known you were a woman.”

“English chivalry,” she snapped. “You’d not skewer a woman with a sword, but you’d steal our land and leave us to starve. More fool you, because I would not have hesitated to kill you.”

“You nearly succeeded.” A lingering sense of disbelief thrummed in his voice. “But thank you for sparing my life.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hawkins. Before long, you may be wishing you’d died a quick death among your friends.” She nudged the sleek horse with her knees and started into the woods. The rope pulled taut. Wesley lurched forward, stumbled, then regained his footing. Half running, he forced himself to keep pace with the trotting horse. A jagged stitch seized his side, and his breathing came fast and harsh.

Caitlin’s warriors surrounded them, some ahead, others bringing up the rear. Wesley tallied no more than a dozen men. A dozen, yet Cromwell swore the Fianna had the strength to best legions of Roundheads.

To draw his mind from discomfort, Wesley concentrated on the extraordinary woman dragging him through the wild woods. He still reeled with the shock of his discovery. Beneath the tunic her armor, which must have been cast especially for her, molded her lithe form with delicate artistry. She rode with a dogged will that a cavalry captain would envy.

Tripping over rocks and ducking under branches, he tried to equate this new Caitlin with the vulnerable woman he had met on the strand. Even then he had guessed at the substance of her character, but never could he have anticipated this. He remembered wondering about the visions that lurked behind her fierce, sad eyes; he had meant to ask her.

He didn’t have to ask her now.

Caitlin MacBride, the leader of the Fianna. She was Joan, the martyred Maid of Orleans, incarnate. A century before, that young woman, crude of manner but possessed of an abiding dream, had led men to victory and laid waste to English claims on the French throne. Men thrice her age and thrice her size obeyed her smallest order. Such a woman was rare and dangerous, he realized with a shiver. Men followed her, enemies feared her, and Wesley had to stop her.

“Well?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re quiet as a sleeping saint. Saying your prayers, are you?”

Her fury had subsided. Yet he felt no easier about his situation. “You’ve given me much to ponder, Caitlin MacBride.”

“Ah. And just what would you be pondering?”

“Joan of Arc,” he said, trying not to pant.

“Joan of Arc? And who would she be? Your lady love?”

“You don’t know?” He leapt over a knotted tree root.

“That’s what I said.”

“I’ll tell you about her some day. It’s a long story.”

“You might not live long enough.” Her laughter cut him like a knife.

They jogged along in silence for a time. Wesley felt the distrustful stares of the others pricking at him. God, what tortures did these men have in store for him?

He had escaped being tortured to death at Tyburn, he told himself. He would escape this disaster, too.

For Laura. Her image, sweetly gilt by a halo of paternal love, drifted through his fading consciousness. God knew what Cromwell would do with the innocent child if Wesley failed. If he failed. If he failed....

The thought kept brutal pace with his every painful footfall. Caitlin refused to slacken the punishing pace. The woods grew thicker with spiny underbrush and rocky ground. Wesley’s foot slammed into something hard and jagged. White-hot pain shot up his leg and coursed like fire through his body. Brilliant light exploded behind his eyes. He was aware of his feet moving, his legs pumping, his pride overcoming the urge to flop to the ground. He felt his mind moving away from the pain, sliding deep into a familiar abyss of warm, white comfort.

He focused on the inner light. His breath slowed to match the rhythmical cadence. Always it happened like this, brilliance pulsing all around him, a burning shield against pain and suffering.

“Mr. Hawkins? Mr. Hawkins!” The strong melody of Caitlin’s voice penetrated the moment.

The blindness peeled away in layers, like living flesh being skinned from a hide. Clenching his jaw against the tearing pain, Wesley opened his eyes. The strange thoughts swirled away before he could grasp them.

The war party had stopped. Reeling with agony and exhaustion, he became aware of his surroundings. They had climbed the foothills west of the lake. Shallow caves, hidden by reedy dry grass and bushes, dotted the cliff sides. Wisps of smoke puffed from one of the larger caves. Caitlin dismounted. A girl scurried forward and took the reins.

“Thank you, Brigid.” Caitlin unwound Wesley’s rope. “See that my horse gets sweetened oats and a fine brisk rub.”

Wesley fell gasping to his knees.

Brigid regarded him with awe and fear. “Is it a
Sassenach,
my lady?”

“Aye,” said Caitlin, pointedly eyeing Wesley’s blousy pantaloons. “A regular tight pants.”

“I’ve never seen a Roundhead before. But where are his horns and his tail?”

Caitlin laughed. “You’ve been listening to Tom Gandy again.”

Brigid clasped the reins to her chest. “Oh, my lady, he tells such wondrous tales. I do so want to ride with you.”

“Perhaps one day you will,
a storin.
See to my horse. Off with you, now.”

Glancing over her shoulder, the child led the horse away.

Caitlin plucked a cork out of a leather flask and thrust it at Wesley. “Drink slowly, now,” she said, “else you’ll puke it all back up.”

Even through his agony Wesley’s pride rose up. He did not want her to see him puke. He sucked slowly at the flask, letting the cold, sweet water trickle down his parched throat.

“How far have we come?” he asked in a faint, hoarse voice.

“Some ten miles, I’d say.” Dawn had broken, and the rose-gold light of the rising sun gave her the look of an angel. But the gleam in her eyes reminded him of a fairy demon. “I’m pleasantly surprised by your stamina. I expected you to collapse after a mile.” A strange softness came over her implacable features. “What a pity you aren’t one of us.”

“Aye.” Fatigue crept up to claim him. “A great pity, indeed.” With that, he pitched forward where he knelt.

* * *

Throughout the day, Caitlin kept a surreptitious eye on her captive. Not that there was any need. Rory had tethered Hawkins’s bound hands to a tree, and besides, the man slept the sleep of the dead.

Still, she could not keep her gaze from wandering to the large Englishman lying in the shade of a sycamore tree. She had never taken a prisoner before. Least of all a deceitful
Sassenach
who had tried to worm his way into her heart.

“I doubt he bites,” said Tom Gandy.

“And what makes you believe I was wondering about that? Don’t you think we’d best have a meeting and plan our next move?”

Tom took out a chunk of beeswax and drew it carefully along his bowstring. “Aye.”

Careful not to betray her weariness, Caitlin walked with Tom to the largest of the caves where the men lounged, some of them sleeping, others quaffing ale and dickering over the meager spoils of the skirmish.

“We’re in luck,” said Tom, sitting back on his heels.

“The Irish are always lucky,” said Rory.

“A fine thought, that,” muttered Caitlin, “if only it were true.”

“I’ve spied out Hammersmith’s army. He’s well supplied with flour and lard. Some livestock, too. He thinks to fool us by putting his train in the vanguard rather than the rear.”

“We’ll take it,” Caitlin said decisively. “Without supplies, our friend Titus Hammersmith will run back to Galway.”

“And you’ll have a fine fat bullock for Logan Rafferty,” said Rory.

“That would be a blessing,” said Caitlin. “Although it would take a bit of explaining to tell him where we got it.”

“Shall we topple the powder and shot into the lake?” asked Rory.

“Yes,” said Caitlin. “It’s of no use to us, anyway, since we have so few guns.”

“We’ll have to get our hands on that food,” said Conn. He rubbed his bandaged side, cursing the cut Hawkins had dealt him in the fight.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Refugees, turned out of their homes by the Roundheads, came in a steady stream to the western provinces, bringing sickness, despair, and starvation to the very gates of Clonmuir. “I have an idea,” she said. “Hammersmith’s expecting an attack by land. So we’ll approach—and leave—by water.”

The men broke into smiles as she explained her plan. Under cloak of night, archers would harry the vanguard while the rest crept up from the banks of the lake and toppled the supply carts into the water, seizing stores and stowing them in the swift, light curragh.

“You make a fine chieftain, Caitlin MacBride,” declared Brian. “I only wish you had an army of thousands following you.”

Her gaze moved around the circle of her friends. Broad of shoulder, straggly of beard, in threadbare tunics and battered armor, the men resembled a band of pirates. Yet their loyalty enclosed her in an embrace of camaraderie that made her glad she was alive.

A thickness rose in her throat. “Nay,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Many’s the time I have considered begging Logan Rafferty for his men-at-arms, or enlisting the Irish soldiers banished to Connaught. But we don’t need them, don’t need their hunger for plunder and revenge, their quarreling factions and their prejudice against following a woman. The Fianna alone can hold its own against the English dogs.”

She lifted a chipped horn cup and saluted them all. “I swear to God, I do not need a single man more. Except perhaps a priest, but they are all gone now.” She drank the bitter ale and smiled through a veil of tears. “Sleep now, my friends, for we’ve hard work ahead come nightfall.”

She stole a nap from the quiet afternoon hours. Visions of Hawkins haunted her sleep, and she awoke feeling groggy and strangely off center. At twilight, the men gathered on the slope below the caves. Caitlin checked on Hawkins. He slumped against a tree, still asleep. The uncommon appeal of his face raised a disquieting clamor in her heart.

She and her men prayed together, ancient blessings uttered in the tongue of their grandsires. Then they formed a circle, extending their right arms into the center so that their fingers touched. The moment hummed with magic, the energy of the group so overwhelming that it seemed all things were possible.

Caitlin studied their strong, rugged faces, drew a deep breath, and shouted, “Fianna!”

“Fianna!” they echoed, and began girding themselves for the raid. “Fianna!”

The shout brought Wesley awake. Every muscle in his body, from his scalp to his toes, came alive with a fiery ache.

“Accursed Fianna,” he muttered. It hurt to move his lips.