“What happened next?” Grits asked.
“I can’t be sure,” Orick answered. “At that moment, I turned and ran from Clere for my life. It was in the first dawnlight of the morning when I took off, and I didn’t stop running until the moon set that night, and even then, I hid. I went to the Salmon Fest, and from there I’ve heard stories the same as
You—about how Gallen O’Day came back that day at dusk, with the sidhe warriors at his back, and the Angel of Death himself walking at his side, and then hunted the demons until nightfall. Some say that the sidhe chased the demons back to hell. Others say that the two sides are still fighting in Coille Sidhe. All that is sure is that no one has seen any sign of the demons, or of the sidhe, but Gallen O’Day rests easy in the village of Clere and is making plans for his wedding day.”
“And other folks say that it’s Gallen O’Day who opened the door to the Otherworld in the first place, at Geata na Chruinne,” the scar-faced sheriff said. “They say that in order to save his own life, he prayed to demons in Coille Sidhe and opened the doors to the netherworld.”
Orick considered the threat implied by that story. If these men believed Gallen was consorting with demons, they’d put him to death. Orick wondered if he might be able to turn these men from their course. “I wouldn’t believe such talk,” Orick said, hoping to calm them.
“It’s true enough,” Scarface said. He nodded toward a small fat man that Orick hadn’t noticed before. “Tell him.”
The fat man looked uneasy, bit his lip. “A-aye,” the fat man stammered. He had a bowl of stew in his hands, and he tried to set it down out of sight, as if he’d just been caught pilfering it. “It’s true. Me and my friends were planning to rob Gallen O’Day’s client, but he—Gallen—put four of us down before we could defend ourselves. It was only a lucky blow from one of us that felled him, and then that Gallen, he began praying long and low to the devil in a wicked voice. That’s when the sidhe appeared.
“I—I know it was wrong to try to rob a man, but if we’d known a priest would die from our wickedness … Now, now I just want to wash my hands of it.”
Orick looked at the greasy little man and imagined sinking his teeth into the rolls of fat at the man’s chinless throat. The robber was glancing about, as if daring someone to name him a liar. Orick would have shouted the man down if he dared, but he knew that now was not the time.
Scarface said, “We intend to arrest Mister O’Day and put him on trial. Bishop Mackey signed a warrant”—he nodded toward the town’s inn—”and the Lord Inquisitor himself has come with us, along with two other witnesses who will swear that Gallen O’Day prayed to the Prince of Darkness. Aye, this O’Day is guilty of foul deeds, all right. And we’ll not let any southern priests conduct the questioning—not with their soft ways. We’ll wring the truth from him, if we have to skin him alive and salt his wounds.”
Orick raised a brow at this, then licked his snout. A full Bishop’s Inquisition would involve days of torture and scourging. They might even nail Gallen to the inverted cross. And though Gallen had a lot of heart in him, even he couldn’t endure such punishment. The lad would have no recourse but to fight these men for his life.
“Are you sure there’s enough of you to take Gallen O’Day?” Orick asked. “They say he’s a dangerous man himself. He’s killed more than a score of highwaymen and bandits. And if the Angel of Death is on his side, you’ll need more than thirty men to take him—even if you have the Lord Inquisitor to back you.”
Some of the younger men looked about to the faces of those around them. Fighting against Gallen O’Day was foolhardy enough. But no one would want to be found fighting against God.
“Hmmm …” Scarface muttered, squatting on the ground to think. “Things to consider. Things to consider.” He got a wineskin from his pack, filled a bowl, then looked up at Orick darkly, his thick brows pulled together, and said, “You’ve earned yourself more than a little supper. Sit with us tonight. Drink and eat hearty, Mister …”
Orick did not like his probing look.
“Boaz,” Grits answered quickly. “And I’m his friend, Grits.”
“Keep those bowls filled,” Scarface ordered his men, and he offered the wine to Orick.
Orick thanked him and began lapping at his bowl of stray lamb stew. He intended to eat his fill. He’d need the energy later tonight, when he ran to Clere to warn Gallen of the danger.
Chapter 2
“Maggie,” a man’s voice called. “Maggie Flynn? Are you in there?” His voice trailed to a garbled string of words Maggie couldn’t make out. She knew everyone in town, and whoever was hollering for her was a stranger.
Maggie looked up from sewing ivory buttons onto the back of her wedding dress, stared up toward the door of the inn, expecting the stranger to enter at any moment. It was a bitter cold day in early fall, with a sharp wind—sharp enough so that the fishermen of Clere had dragged their boats high onto the beach. A dozen of them were lounging about the fire, drinking hot rum.
Danny Teague, a stable boy who had shaggy hair and a fair-sized goiter, opened the door and looked out. A horse cart had drawn up outside the door. Its driver was a stranger in a gray leather greatcoat, a sprawling battered leather hat pulled low over his face. He had piercing gray eyes and a neatly trimmed sandy beard going gray. Still, at first glance, Maggie knew that it was his moustache, waxed so that the ends twirled in loops, that she’d remember when he was gone.
“I’m calling after Maggie Flynn” the stranger shouted at Danny. “You don’t answer to that name, do you, man? What’s the matter with you—did your father marry his sister or something?”
Danny closed the door and sort of srumbled back under the weight of this verbal insult, and Maggie shoved her wedding dress up on the table.
“It’s all right, Danny,” she said with obvious annoyance. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Rudeness out there!”
Already, several fishermen had got up from their seats by the fire and were rather sidling toward the door. If the stranger had hoped for an audience—and folks who stood in the street and hollered usually did want an audience—well, he had one. And whatever Maggie said to him now was likely to be talked about in every house tonight-as if the town didn’t have enough to gossip about after the past few weeks: with demons and angels and fairies battling in the forests outside of town, the priest and innkeeper murdered.
Maggie got up, straightened her green wool dress and a white apron so that she looked the part of a matron who kept an inn—albeit a very young matron. Her long dark red hair was tied back.
She went and opened the door, gazed into the biting wind that smelled of ocean rime. The man’s wagon was old and battered, and it was drawn by a bony horse that looked as if it hoped to die before it had to plod another step. The blacksmith’s hammer had quit ringing across the street, and he stood squinting from the door of his shop. Elsewhere, an unusual number of people suddenly seemed to have business on the streets.
The stranger set the brake on his wagon and greeted her. “Damn it, Maggie, you look too damned much like your mother.”
She studied him. Since he spoke so familiarly, she thought she should know him, but she’d never seen his likeness befbre. “I’ll thank you to speak more reverently of the departed, Mr…?”
“Thomas Flynn. Your uncle.”
Maggie glared at him, trying to consider what to say. Her mother had been dead for three years. Her father and brothers had all drowned a year and a half before that. And in all of that time she’d not seen so much as a whisker of Thomas Flynn’s beard nor got a single message expressing his sympathy.
“That’s right,” Thomas said, “your only kin has come to call. You can close your mouth now.”
From across the street, the blacksmith cracked a huge smile that barely showed through his bushy black beard. “Will you be giving us a song, Thomas?” he called.
In answer, Thomas reached behind him and pulled out the rosewood case for his lute, st
ood, and shook it over his head. “I’ll give you many songs in the days to come!” he shouted, and his coat opened. Beneath it, Maggie could see a beautiful plum-colored shirt tied with a gold belt, pants that were forest green. His outfit was slightly festive, slightly dignified, and slightly absurd—as befitting a minstrel. Indeed, she realized now that he had been striving to draw a crowd by shouting for her from the streets. He was a man of wide repute, a satirist with some reputation for having a quick wit and, as they say in County Morgan,” a tongue sharp enough to slice through bones.”
Such folk were always good for songs and tales of faraway lands, mixed with a fair amount of political commentary so burning hot that you could use it to scald the hair off a pig.
Maggie said, “We’ve heard of you—even in this little backwater. Everyone knows Thomas Flynn, who goes about aping the great men of the world.”
“Aping great men? Oh, heaven forbid! I’d never ape a truly great man.” Thomas grinned, removing his hat to show a full head of close-cropped hair. “They’re too strange and fine a thing. But, now, for those who call themselves ‘great,’ but who are in fact deceivers—those men I will not spare. For through my aping I can sometimes prove that those who call themselves ‘great’ are nothing more than great apes.”
“So why have you favored us with your presence, Uncle Thomas?” Maggie said in a tone that flatly admitted she wanted to be rid of him quickly.
“Oh, it’s worried about you that I am, darlin’. Rumors. I’ve been hearing disconcerting things, Maggie. Rumor says you plan to marry a man named Gallen O’Day, even after he prayed to the devil and got your village priest murdered.”
“Och, and what would you know of it?” Maggie asked. There was far more to the story than she ever planned to tell her uncle—or to anyone else.
“I’m only repeating the tales that I’ve heard on the road,” Thomas answered, “tales everyone is telling nowadays.
“Some say that Gallen called upon the devils, unleashing them on the town, and others say that the demons came of their own accord and that Gallen struggled against them until God’s angels came to fight beside him. In the last two weeks, every person in twelve counties has worn out their jaws yapping about it.”
“Sure, and I suppose you don’t believe such stories?” Maggie challenged, unwilling to so much as venture an opinion about the recent happenings. “So you’ve come to write a song to mock the good folks of Clere—and my beau Gallen, too, I imagine.”
“Ah,” Thomas said, looking around at the folks in town. “I’ve seen no proof that the accounts are anything more than fables. Why, I just drove forty miles from Baille Sean, and I spotted nothing more menacing than an old red fox that was slinking from pine to pine, hunting partridges. If there be green-skinned demons about, I’ve had no sight of them. And as for the tales of angels or fairy folk with flaming arrows, I’ve seen no flames at all except in my own campfire. If I were called to write a song right now, I’m afraid that I’d have to damn you all as liars.”
“I’m not surprised that you saw nothing in the woods,” Maggie said. “The militia says the roads are clear.”
“And I’m not surprised that I saw nothing, neither. Little surprises me anymore. In fact, the only thing that surprises me more than the human facility for prevarication is some people’s nearly equal facility for staring a known liar in the face and believing every fantastic word he utters. That’s a fair part of why I had to come—to see if there’s any truth to this gossip about demons and angels and fairy folks in the woods.”
Maggie half closed her right eye, stared up at him. Out behind the inn, a sheep bleated. The same damned sheep she’d had penned out back for two weeks, waiting for slaughter. But since word of the goings-on in Clere had spread, no one had dared the roads, and the inn had remained empty, except for locals who came to drink and exchange theories on what had happened.
Maggie smiled faintly. “There’s some truth in those tales, Uncle Thomas. Satan himself came marching up that road not two weeks ago, parading at the head of a band of demons. And they heartlessly murdered Father Heany and John Mahoney—but those demons were never conjured by Gallen O’Day.” She watched his face for reaction. “And angels came that snowy night and drove the demons from town, and one of them fought at Gallen’s side—the angel Gabriel—that part is true.
“But now Gallen’s enemies—cutthroats and thieves all—have been telling tales on him, naming him a consort of the devil, hoping to discredit him.”
Thomas scratched behind his ear, and Maggie tried to imagine what he was thinking. Maggie knew that he wasn’t a simple man. He’d never heard a tale that featured demons walking in broad daylight, or angels fighting with magic arrows. But everyone within fifty miles swore that it happened, and the tales were stranger than any lies these unimaginative folks could conjure.
He looked about at the crowd that had gathered. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that there’s more than one song in such a tale, so I’ll have to stay a couple of days at the least. You wouldn’t mind preparing a good room for an old man, and maybe heating up a mug of rum for me to wrap my cold fingers around.”
“I’d like to see the color of your money first,” Maggie said, giving him no quarter.
Thomas raised an eyebrow, fumbled under his coat and muttered, “Och, so you’re a frugal lass, are you? Generous as a tax collector. Well, I like that in a woman, so long as she’s my niece.” Thomas pulled out a rather large purse and jingled it. Maggie could hear heavy coins—gold maybe—in that purse. Only a fool would display so much money in public, Maggie thought. So her uncle was ostentatious as well as cantankerous. And with so much of a purse, she wouldn’t be able to toss him out on the streets any time soon.
Thomas grabbed his lute and climbed down from the wagon, and Danny the stable boy was forced to suffer the indignity of tending the horse of a man who’d abused him.
Thomas stumped into the common room of the inn, looked about. The inn was built inside an ancient house—pine that had a girth of some sixty feet. The rooms rose up through three stories. Like all house-pines, over the years this one had grown a bit musty, and the walls creaked as the wind blew in the pine’s upper branches. The smell of pipe smoke and hard liquor filled the air. The windows were large and open, covered with new white curtains that Maggie had made the week before. The common room featured six small tables, and chairs set in a circle around a fireplace. A small bar separated the kitchen door from the common room. The bar had two barrels on tap—one of beer and one of rum. The ale, whiskey, and wine were stored in back this time of year.
“A fine place you have here, Maggie,” Thomas muttered.
“Oh, it’s not mine,” Maggie returned. “It belonged to John Mahoney. I’m just running the place till one of his kin comes to claim it.”
“Nope, nope.” Thomas sighed heavily. “It’s yours, now. Or it will be when you reach your majority. Mahoney sent me a copy of his will two years ago, and I stopped in Baille Sean and had the deed transferred into your name.”
Maggie was rather dumbfounded by all of this. John Mahoney had never bragged much on his family. He’d once mentioned an older brother who lived “down south,” and he’d posted letters once in a while, so Maggie had assumed the brother would come to take possession of the inn.
“I don’t understand,” Maggie said, a bit breathless. “Why would he give it to me? I mean … I don’t understand this. I’ve never much liked working here, and I’m not even sure I want the damned place.”
“Well, now,” Thomas said, “for a frugal woman, you don’t sound overjoyed with your new fortune. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and I go find a quiet corner, and let’s talk about it.”
Maggie led Thomas to the corner table where she’d been working on her wedding dress. He stopped at the taps and took a large tin beer mug, then filled it up with rum and set it on the grate at the edge of the fire. “A man who has been driving a cart all day in the cold needs something warm
to wrap his hands around,” Thomas chided her. “You should know that.” Maggie looked at the full mug. It seemed her uncle planned to be drunk in an hour.
Then he came and sat across from her, folded his hands, and looked her in the eyes. She knew that he was no more than fifty-five, but he looked older. His face had grown leathery from years on the road, and his stomach was going to fat.
“Well, Maggie,” Thomas said. “I’ve been driving for over a week to reach you, and—och—to tell the truth, I’m not sure you’re going to like what I have to say. So it’s begging you that I am, to not take it too hard.” Thomas reached into his shirt, pulled out a yellowed envelope. “This here is a paper that your mother made out on her deathbed. She was always harping on me to take more responsibility for the family, sending me letters and whatnot. So she wrote out her will and had John Mahoney witness it, then had it sent by post. By the time the letter found me, it was months after your dear mother’s death. But in this letter, she acknowledged me as your only living kin, and made me your legal guardian. So … the burden of seeing that you’re properly cared for falls to me, don’t you know?”
She sat back as suddenly as if he’d dealt her a physical blow. She gaped at him, then the words tumbled from her mouth. “Mother has been dead for years—and in all of this time, I’ve not had so much as a letter from you!” But now I have an inn, she thought, so you’ve come to make yourself my legal guardian.
Thomas held up his hands, as if to ward away the accusation in her voice. “I know, I know … and I’m dreadful sorry. But I’ve lived the life of a wandering man, don’t you know, and I couldn’t have cared for you properly on the road.”
Maggie looked over her shoulder. Several townsfolk had slipped into the inn, and all of them had listening ears. They were gathering at nearby tables like a flock of geese to a fistful of grain.
“Anyway,” Thomas said, “your mother appointed me to be your legal guardian until the age of eighteen. It’s all signed by the bailiff, proper and legal.” He held the paper out for her inspection.
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