Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Milk?" Catherine's eyes flew open with hope.

  "Aye. But ye'll not be seein' breakfast for hours," said Peg, slapping a small pile of linen on the bed. "Nearly half the mornin's gone and ye've plenty to do, so ye'd better be movin'."

  Catherine squinted into the dark. "You're confused," she said flatly. "It's still night."

  "Night, me mither's bun." Peg sniffed. "The birds is caterwaulin'. Out of bed, girl."

  As Catherine struggled to her elbows, a sharp pain shot through her neck and down her spine. Stifling a groan, she cranked her complaining body out of bed. When she had reached a more or less stable standing position, Peg thrust a worn, colorless shirt at her from the linen pile on the bed. Catherine looked at it. "You're joking." When Peg did not even blink, she sighed. Every muscle shrieking, Catherine worked her way out of her jacket, then into the shirt. One of Peg's own, it dropped directly over her head to her waist, ignoring her shoulders on the way.

  "A tad large," Peg noted. "Pull it up and draw the cord at the neck. . . . Tighter. I want no good Irishmen bein' tempted to sin. That's it. Rip off a strip round the hem and tie it about yer waist." Peg stood back and surveyed the effect. "Well . . . ye won't be dazzlin' the Prince of Wales, but it looks better than it ought."

  Catherine tried to pull on her jacket but the narrow sleeves refused to pass over the shirt, so with a sigh, she firmly ripped the sleeves off the once-fine garment and made a passable vest. She had slept in her boots, so at least she was forgiven the necessity of bending over to put them on; she thought she might collapse if she did.

  "Come along with ye." Peg led the way through a series of corridors. up a narrow flight of steps, then pushed open a door.

  The whitewashed kitchen was enormous. Windows, which lined the far wall, had heavy shutters with musket slits; deep-set casement wells indicated stone foundation walls three feet thick. The place could easily be turned into a fortress. Massive hoods sheltered huge hearths on the near wall. Down the center of the room was a long row of oak tables where several women were either up to their elbows in bread dough or making up vats of porridge and slicing bacon slabs for the fireplaces. As Catherine's nose twitched, her stomach let out a sullen growl. Two boys in their early teens were stacking wood at the near fireplace; one gave her a shy, furtive smile. As she smiled back, his companion gave him a warning thump on the shoulder. "Back to your, work, Danny!" He turned back to his chore. The women were less shy. One by one, as they became aware of her presence, they stared. A wave of hostility drifted toward her. Straightening her aching back, she eyed them as coolly as if Peg were escorting her on tour.

  "Know anythin' about cookin'?" Peg asked.

  "Not a thing," was the crisp reply. "And I've no intention of learning."

  Peg gave her a look. "Ye'd be wise, girl, not to quibble over trifles."

  Catherine started to retort, then realized the woman was right. She had best tread lightly until she explored her situation. She shrugged. "Very well, but don't blame me if I burn down the place."

  Peg led her to a table where a young blonde with rosy cheeks and Peg's blue eyes kneaded dough. With a sidelong look at Catherine, the blonde kept kneading. "Now," Peg said, "watch Moora here and do as she does."

  Catherine wondered if rpw dough was edible. It looked edible. She watched Moora's hands work and wind. Catherine filled her hands with flour. Nobody had asked her if they were clean. They were not. Moora plopped a wad of the creamy stuff on a board in front of her. Catherine dug her fingers into it, then tried a few experimental pulls. It was sticky and rubbery, but amusing to manipulate. Better still, it was turning a light gray. She adored the idea of feeding dirty bread to the enemy, but she was famished and the mound of dough was the only food in reach. Casually, she reached into the flattish wooden bowl that held fresh dough. Moora said without looking up, "Don't eat that."

  "I've only had a few mouthfuls of food in the last few days," Catherine argued. "I won't be much use if I faint."

  Moora's jaw set. "It's a rule. If you eat anythin' besides the regular meals, it's stealin'. Maude, there, handles thievin'."

  Catherine looked at Maude's burly physique and man- sized hands that wielded a side of bacon like a demitasse spoon. She kept on kneading.

  After a bit, Moora rolled her own portion into a fat sausage shape, then coiled it into a long knot. Catherine started to duplicate the pattern. "No. Another handful of flour or so for yer dough, then flour yer hands again before ye roll it."

  For the next few hours Catherine folded dough, longing to pillow her head in the soft mass to sleep forever. At last, a bell sounded by the hearth nearest the door and her stomach gave a gurgle of joy. Breakfast! Everyone began to scurry about, clear tables, and set them with porringers, mugs, and spoons. Moora, without a word to her unwanted apprentice, joined the others.- Catherine watched for a moment, wondering if she was expected to assist, until Peg waggled an imperative finger and pointed to one of several silver trays loaded with covered dishes monogrammed with the initial C. The beast's own breakfast, no doubt.

  "Take that and follow me," Peg said. Moora and four girls picked up the other trays.

  "But, what about. . . ?"

  "Your breakfast?" Moora ironically supplied for her.

  "Later," Peg intoned. With a sigh, Catherine picked up the heavy tray. By the time they reached the end of the long corridor to the dining room, she thought her wrists would break.

  The first face she recognized was Liam's at the table's far end. Toying abstractedly with a water glass, he glanced up as Peg led the servants into the room. His startled look told Catherine the bruises on her face must have ripened. With a flush, he focused on his empty plate. She hoped his conscience roasted him!

  As she trailed Peg and Moora past the chairs toward him, she saw only strange men until Flannery's flaming beard came into view. Possibly accustomed to his master's brutality, he apeared less surprised than Liam. The trays went down on a massive mahogany sideboard. The room was Georgian with dark green walls, handsome white wainscoting, and a carpet with a scarlet field bordered in green and gold. A George Stubbs painting of riders and dappled white hounds hung in a gilt frame over the sideboard. Across the room, long windows admitted the hazy glow of early morning and framed a landscape bleak as a drained sea adrift with clinging scraps of mist. A few trees clustered near the house, but beyond those, nothing whatever relieved the wind-blasted furze and heather-blanketed rock. A peach-veined marble fireplace held a cheery crackling fire which dispelled the morning chill. Due to the laggard winter light, candles in brass wall brackets and on'the table had been lit.

  As the dishes were uncovered, Catherine developed the attention of a starved dog. Crisp bacon wafted a heavenly odor to her nostrils. Poached eggs with lovely yellow yolks peeped from their deep dish. Kippers, golden cottage potatoes. And luxury of luxuries, black Jamaican coffee.

  "Now, ye're to serve each gentleman yer dish from the left," Peg told her after dismissing the rest of the servant girls except Moora. "If he wants a bit, you spoon him out a bit. If he keeps lookin' at ye, give him more. Don't trip over yer skirts, and tomorrow, tie yer hair back. Begin with the big chair at either end, dependin' on whether Moora or meseif an't already there. I know it an't usual, but that's the way we do it at Shelan."

  Shelan. Up until now, no one had mentioned names of anything or anyone.

  "When ye're done, come back to this spot. If anybody wants extra helpin's, he'll crook his finger; you go runnin' and see what he wants."

  You mean they don't whistle and expect me to wag my tail? Catherine thought irritably. I was so looking forward to relieving myself on some Irish gentleman's foot.

  Thankfully, Peg and Moora headed for the far chair, the one where he must rest his villainous posterior. Catherine avoided looking in that direction and turned her attention to the choirboy. She doled bacon onto Liam's plate with precise plops. His neck was rosy, his embarrassment tangible as he muttered, "Thank you."

 
Catherine bobbed abruptly and whined in perfect Cockney only he could hear, "Ow, don't think nothin' of it, ducks!" Ignoring his choke, she went on to the next man.

  Then she heard the Green-Eyed Beast's hateful, melodic lilt in the same strange language from the previous night and stole a look at him under her lashes. Insufferably at ease, he was sitting back, long legs stretched out under the table, a bleached linen shirt open at his tanned throat, his eyes on Flannery. Critically assessing the clean-cut profile etched against the window's hard, gray light, she reluctantly had to admit he was a man any woman would look at. Like her father, he used no gestures as he spoke. She noted with satisfaction the scratches on his cheek.

  Of the two men conversing with Green Eyes, one was in his fifties, with narrow, crinkling blue eyes and a thick shock of gray hair. He was the only man with a proper coat at the table, and the oldest. Green Eyes' attentiveness to his comments suggested respect. The other was a red- haired, blunt-featured youth completely out of place in a polished room. Except for a coarse mouth, he resembled Flannery, but lacked Flannery's air of ironic humor. He seemed to be making some argument and growing irritated with the others' tolerant disagreement. The rest of the men listened as they finished their food.

  "Fetch the plates," Peg quietly directed at last. "Make sure the silver's laid slantwise across the plate so it don't fall off. Rouge, the young redhead there, don't bother with proper manners, so watch his plate . . . and his hands, too. Pick up from the right and be quick. Moora's gone for cobbler we've still to serve."

  Catherine gave a silent groan. Oh, her godforsaken stomach. But at least she did not have to go near Green Eyes as she cleared. Moora brought the cobbler and, with Peg, served the upper and middle part of the table. Catherine's mouth watered as cream-drenched apple cobbler was placed in front of the men. Green Eyes waved the last course aside, but wanted coffee. To her dismay, Peg motioned her to take it. "From the left, remember," she said, handing her a cup and saucer with the silver coffeepot.

  Praying the cup would.not rattle, Catherine crossed the room with the heavy pot. If he tried a familiar pat, she swore silently, no matter what they did to her, she would empty the entire steaming potful over his head. She set the cup and saucer down without a clink. Although he must have known who was serving him, he spared her not a glance. She poured. He ignored. She retreated with the pot, madder than if he had pinched her. So, she was just one more virgin he had brutally used and given the toe of his boot! By the time she returned the pot to the sideboard, she was as hot as the coffee. And nearly giddy with hunger. Mentally, she called him every foul name she had ever heard and a few she made up on the spot. Peg nudged her. "He wants cobbler now."

  Oh, now he wants it, does he? Grabbing the cream pitcher and packing a saucer under her arm, she picked up the entire remainder of the cobbler and marched to his chair. Moora moved to cut her off, but Peg stopped her daughter with a knowing, silent shake of the head. Catherine plunked down the pitcher on the table, then withdrew the saucer with a flourish from under her armpit, placed it with a sharp rap on his service' plate, and ladled out cobbier in fat dollops. Green Eyes leaned back in his chair and watched her. The others were fascinated as a great pile oozed over the saucer rim onto the plate. She poured cream in a shining stream on the miniature mountain until, to her regret, it ran out before leaking from the table onto his lap.

  Quietly, as if addressing a peevish child, he said, "Because you lack regard for our food, you'll do without your share of it today. Go back to your place."

  Liam winced.

  Cheekbones white with rage, Catherine stalked back to the sideboard. I don't regret it. I don't regret a scrap of it, she told herself furiously.

  Moora edged away. Peg said nothing, simply removed the offending mess from the table, then resumed her place. Most of the men excused themselves, looking Catherine over in wonder as they left the room. Flannery, Liam, and the gray-haired man lingered on with Green Eyes.

  Great Caesar's Ghost, Catherine though irritably, they must be recounting the history of the Roman Empire! I must have something to eat! A wave of dizziness washed over her. In the next moment, she sagged to the floor.

  The men stared at the small heap on the rug. The gray- haired man instantly pushed his chair back, but Sean waved him to remain where he was. "Don't disturb yourself, doctor," he said in clipped English. "When did you feed her last, Liam?"

  "Jimmy gave her hardtack yesterday noon," came the flustered reply, "but she missed two meals yesterday and two the preceding day."

  "Hm. I imagine she is a trifle hungry." Sean appraised the heap. "Pity. She's going to regret sleeping through tomorrow's meals as well."

  A pitiful moan issued immediately from the heap as it began to rouse feebly to a half-sitting position. "Wh . . . what happened?"

  "You appearedito faint," came the expressionless reply.

  "Oh," Catherine said vaguely. She lifted a hand to her forehead and sneaked a peek at him under sooty lashes. Narrow green eyes slanted back at her through lashes as thick as her own.

  He smiled grimly. "We're all gratified by your rapid recovery."

  One sapphire glinted at him from behind her hand. "I feel better now."

  "Oh, good. I was afraid you wouldn't be up to a third act."

  In an instant, she whipped to her feet despite a slight unsteadiness. "If you mean to starve me, I see no reason to work." She glared at him defiantly. "And I won't until I'm given a decent meal."

  Unimpressed, Sean sipped at his coffee. "As you like. Peg . . ." He jerked his head toward the kitchen corridor door. "Take her back to her room. She'll stay there until she agrees to complete her duties. The hours she spends taking her ease will be deducted from her free time in future."

  Catherine said nothing, but if her eyes had been carving knives, Culhane would have been whittled to a chip. Peg and Moora flanked her as she marched out of the room, slim back as straight as a board. When the women's footsteps had died away, Doctor Flynn leaned forward on his elbows. "Sean, she has no weight to lose. If she holds out. . ."

  "She won't."

  "That girl is more stubborn than you realize," Liam cut in. "She might have gotten away from us in Runcorn if she hadn't chosen the worst dive on the docks for a haven. And on board—"

  Now Flannery spoke. "She made sheep's eyes at Galahad here and relieved him of his pistol. She was all for commandeerin' the dinghy and takin' her chances in a snowstorm."

  Sean scoffed, "The little witch would have had a short row frozen to the oars."

  Flannery cocked an eyebrow. "Long enough to maybe raise Antrim."

  "She won't last in that hole belowstairs with nothing to eat!" Liam protested again.

  "Did her sheep's eyes melt more than your brain?" Sean cut back curtly. "You could have lost the lives of your crew, not to mention your own, the boat, and that black-haired baggage who can hang the lot of us." He stood up and leaned over the table, fingers splayed on the linen. "Now, get this through your heads. She's my prisoner. If I've a whim to flay her on Dublin Commons, it's nothing to you."

  An awkward silence fell. Liam sat rigid, his knuckles white on the chair arms. Sean kicked his chair back. "I suggest we get on with the day's business."

  Flannery and Flynn rose, but Liam remained where he was. "I'd like a word with my brother in private," he said tersely. Flannery and Flynn exchanged glances and withdrew.

  With a short sigh of exasperation, Sean dropped into his chair. "What is it?"

  "Sean, I may be a figurehead here, but I demand respect."

  Sean raised an eyebrow. "Demand it?"

  "I accord you respect. . ."

  "I earn it."

  "And I don't? Is that why you undermine my position? Do you expect me to accept public criticism?"

  "Did you merit the criticism?"

  "Yes, I don't deny it."

  "Then you must accept it. You accepted a commission you nearly aborted. Had you given me a like responsibility I failed to carry out,
I would be subject to your reprimand. If this were a formal army, I would be liable to court- martial."

  "This isn't wartime and it was your private scheme—"

  "That you agreed to see through."

  Liam looked away in frustration, then back. "Very well." His voice was toneless. "I see your point."

  "Good. Now that we've reached this stage, I concede your point. I should have spoken to you privately. I lost my temper." He held out his hand. "We're into the shank of the morning, brother. Shall we get on with the day's work?"

  Liam hesitated. "On one condition. Don't starve that girl."

  Sean's green eyes narrowed. "I won't bargain, Liam." He paused. "When she understands for the first time in her pampered life what hunger means, I'll feed her. Not before." He pulled Liam easily to his feet and gave his shoulder a slap. "Don't fret, Galahad. I've no intention of making her any skinnier than she is. Last night was like bedding a bag of rabbit bones." He turned away before Liam could tell if he was lying.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Swinging Star

  When Catherine, who had instantly fallen asleep in her cell, opened her eyes, twilight revealed a mug of water on the floor beside her bed. Resisting the urge to drain it, she drank just enough to quiet her hunger pangs, then again slept half the clock around until late morning of the next day. In a stupor, she groped for the mug and, despite her restraint, downed most of it before the stomachache dulled. She wondered how long she could hold out; if the Irishman was capable of kidnap and rape, he was capable of letting her starve. He'll hang, she swore vengefully, and I'll dance a jig about the gibbet to show him how to kick his heels. But oddly, as she drifted back to fevered sleep, her mind evaded the point when the noose choked the life from the magnificent, marred animal who had attacked her in a kind of torment equal to her own.

  Her dreams swirled and twisted like vapors over a marsh. Somehow the old, recurrent nightmare of being a child again, of running through a forest from some terru ble unseen beast, altered. The heat was as oppressive as that of a jungle and she was now a young woman, but still wearing a child's nightdress and crying for her mother. As always, Elise appeared, dressed for riding. She silently took her hand and led her from the forest into a misted meadow split by a crumbling stone wall. Usually the dream faded away at this point; but now, a black-hooded executioner waited by the wall, his bare chest covered with crimson slashes. Among the cuts gaped mortal wounds; sick with fear, she tried to run away, but no matter where she stumbled, her mother blocked her escape. The executioner seized her, threw her down on the wall, then ripped away her nightshift. She screkmed uselessly for Elise. Then it seemed her body was being torn apart, as if she were being stabbed by curving blades, and in her agony she saw eyes glitter green hellfire through the slits of the executioner's mask. Pleading, she caught at her mother's habit, but the habit was covered with blood, and Elise's beautiful face was cold. "Now, it is your turn. But you cannot die. You will never escape me. I will follow you always . . . always . . ."