Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips

  and stumbled forward.

  Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

  "Pick it up, you coward." Rory's voice was thick with passion. "Pick

  it up and face your death like a man."

  Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The

  thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

  "Now," he shouted. "Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of

  Rory O'Neil."

  He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the

  waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he

  realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It

  was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round

  in surprise.

  The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad's chest and out

  the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the

  water. With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword

  free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

  For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a

  single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with

  bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking

  dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another

  was leaning against a tree, retching.

  How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing

  but a blur.

  Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of

  blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding

  out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

  And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the

  stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and

  children violated.

  He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him,

  tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on

  this quest and returning to his home and family.

  But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he

  knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to

  him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had

  brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden

  had to pay.

  "Will we stop awhile, Rory?" one of his men called.

  "We'll move on." He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the

  water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and

  stepped from the river. "If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in

  Dublin."

  * * *

  "I'm sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire."

  "I understand, Father. You have your duties."

  "But it's so soon since Margaret..."

  The young woman touched a hand to her father's lips to still his

  words. "I'll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives

  we'll miss her. But I can't ask you to forsake everything and spend the

  rest of your life holding my hand."

  "The grief is still so raw."

  "Aye. I expect a year from now I'll still be grieving. But I'll find ways

  to stay busy. I promise."

  "I wish you'd change your mind and come with me."

  "We've gone over this before, Father. I'm just not ready to leave

  Mother's home, her grave."

  'I know. And I understand, my dear. I've asked Charles Lord Davis to

  look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner

  party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently

  arrived who might snag your interest."

  AnnaClaire managed a smile. "You just can't help yourself, can you,

  Father?"

  "Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You're far from

  home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father

  abandons you as well."

  "You aren't abandoning me. You said yourself you'll be back in time

  for my birthday."

  "And I shall. But I'd feel better if I knew you had a young man

  looking out for you while I was gone."

  "I'll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear."

  "But not quite what I had in mind. No matter." He turned to see his

  trunks being unloaded from the lorry and deposited on the docks. "I

  don't want you to remain until my ship sails. I'd just as soon you not

  mingle with the locals."

  He could see that she was about to voice an objection so he gave her

  shoulders a squeeze. "Go now. Tavis is waiting with the carriage.

  Stay well, my dear. Stay busy. And do be careful. These are

  dangerous times."

  "Goodbye, Father. God speed."

  AnnaClaire turned away and began to move slowly through the

  crowd.

  It was market day, and the docks teemed with life. Gnarled, ruddy

  fishermen sat mending their nets while children, no older than nine or

  ten, pushed carts piled with cockles and mussels. Old women in faded

  gowns held up striped sea bass and cod to entice buyers. Chickens

  squawked in crude wooden pens. Farmers displayed the bounty from

  their land. Potatoes, carrots, peas.

  The air was ripe with the scent of sea and earth and humanity.

  Wealthy landowners mingled with the poorest of the poor as vendors

  vied with one another to sell their wares. AnnaClaire felt a tug at her

  heartstrings. From her earliest childhood she had always loved the

  sights and sounds and smells of Dublin.

  English soldiers, fresh from their journey across the Channel,

  disembarked from Her Majesty's ship, the Greenley, and shouldered

  their way through the throng, escorting half a dozen of the queen's

  own emissaries. Each month, Elizabeth dispatched more titled

  English to deal with what was being called "the Irish problem.'•»

  "Out of the way, you fools." One of the soldiers raised his sword

  menacingly, and the crowd fell back.

  From her vantage point, AnnaClaire felt a wave of disgust. Every

  time another boatload of soldiers arrived on these shores, the

  discontent grew. And not without good reason. Some of these crude

  louts could neither read nor write, yet they seemed determined to

  prove to the locals that they were superior in every way.

  As the soldiers approached, AnnaClaire saw a young woman, heavy

  with child, grasp the hand of a toddler and try to snatch her out of the

  way. At the last moment the child pulled free and stepped directly

  into the path of the marching men.

  "Oh, no. Someone please stop her," the woman cried.

  AnnaClaire couldn't believe what she was seeing. The soldiers

  continued pressing forward. With the surge of the crowd, the little

  one would surely be trampled.

  Without a thought to her own safety she dashed forward and snatched

  up the child, sidestepping out of danger only a second before the

  soldiers marched past.

  "Oh, thank you, miss. Bless you. Bless you." With tears of gratitude

  the young woman kissed Anna- Claire's hands before taking the little

  girl from her arms and hugging her to her heart.

  "You're welcome. I can't believe they didn't see what was

  happening."

&nb
sp; "They saw." The young woman's eyes narrowed. "They just don't

  care. Our lives mean nothing to them." Her voice lowered. "But soon,

  very soon, they'll feel the sting of the Blackhearted O'Neil."

  "I don't understand."

  "He's here." Now the young woman's voice was little more than a

  whisper. "They say he's here in the crowd."

  "Who is here?"

  "Rory O'Neil. The Blackhearted O'Neil. Praise heaven. Come to put

  an end to the injustice." Her eyes suddenly widened. "God in heaven.

  There he is now. Come, miss. We mustn't tarry. It's begun."

  AnnaClaire was aware of a murmur going through the crowd.

  "What's begun?"

  "There's no time." Before AnnaClaire could argue, the young woman

  tugged her out of the way of a band of ragged men wielding swords.

  Moments later she shoved AnnaClaire down behind a cart heaped

  with stinking fish. From there AnnaClaire watched in wide- eyed

  wonder as that small band engaged more than a dozen soldiers in

  battle.

  The scene was one of complete chaos. The soldiers, honor-bound to

  protect the queen's emissaries, stood in a tight line, swords raised

  against the intruders. But instead of falling back, these Irish

  confounded them by charging directly at them, swords flashing,

  voices screaming.

  Several of the young soldiers, who were engaging the enemy for the

  first time, looked absolutely terrified. Instead of standing their

  ground, they turned and fled, ignoring the shouted commands of their

  sergeant-at- arms.

  To add to the confusion, many of the cages were upended, releasing

  squawking chickens and quacking ducks. From her position behind a

  cart, an old woman began tossing her supply of fish at the English

  soldiers. Others soon joined in, until the docks were littered with the

  slimy remains of seafood.

  AnnaClaire watched as the leader of the Irish warriors leapt between

  one of his own men, who was bleeding profusely, and a soldier who

  was about to run him through with his sword.

  "That's Rory O'Neil," the young woman beside her said with a trace

  of awe. "Our Blackhearted O'Neil."

  AnnaClaire couldn't take her eyes off him. She'd never seen anyone

  like him. This man looked like the devil himself, leaping, dancing, his

  sword singing through the air and landing fatal blows with uncanny

  accuracy. He was everywhere. Deflecting an English sword. Taking a

  blow meant for one of his men, then retaliating with a powerful thrust

  of his own blade. When one of his men was wounded, he shouldered

  him aside and saved him from certain death, before returning to the

  fray.

  As the battle wore on, only three English soldiers remained standing.

  But when the queen's emissaries began to flee, Rory's voice stopped

  them.

  "We have not come to harm you. The one we were seeking is not

  here. We wish only that you carry this message to your queen. All we

  desire is to live in peace. But know this. We will not lay down our

  arms until those soldiers who have harmed our innocent women and

  children have paid. Beginning with the one called Tilden. He is the

  one we seek. He brings shame to his queen and country. Do you

  understand?"

  The titled men glanced nervously at one another before nodding their

  heads.

  Satisfied, Rory lowered his sword. "Now tell your soldiers to lower

  their weapons, and we will take our leave of this place."

  As the three soldiers began to comply, a voice from behind them

  shouted, "Cowards. You will not surrender to these barbarians."

  A burly soldier stepped into their midst. His yellow hair hung nearly

  to his shoulders. A wide, puckered scar ran from his left eye to his

  jaw. At the sight of him the crowd of Irish onlookers gave a collective

  gasp before falling eerily silent.

  AnnaClaire turned to the young woman beside her. "What is wrong?

  Who is that?"

  "He is the soldier they came seeking. His name is Tilden. But most

  call him Lucifer. Especially those who have tasted his cruelty."

  "What sort of cruelty?"

  "Beyond anything you can imagine. He enjoys torturing our men

  before finally taking their lives. He despoils our women and children,

  and often forces husbands and fathers to watch the brutality before

  killing them. And he has vowed to be the one to stop our

  Blackhearted O'Neil." The woman's lips trembled. "But if there is a

  God in heaven, Rory O'Neil will prevail. Else, all in this fair land are

  lost."

  AnnaClaire decided it was best to keep her thoughts to herself. But

  she wondered what possible chance one exhausted, bloody, wounded

  Irish warrior could have against a soldier who had just stepped afresh

  into battle.

  "He is mine," Rory shouted as he charged toward the laughing

  soldier.

  The throb of passion in his voice sent shivers through the crowd. But

  before he could confront Tilden, more than a dozen soldiers stepped

  from their places of concealment and brandished swords. Rory found

  himself fighting for his life.

  Once again the crowd fell back and watched in silence as Rory and

  his small, wounded band fought valiantly. It was an amazing sight to

  see men leaping, lunging, the blades of their swords running red with

  blood. And though the ragged band of Irish warriors was now beyond

  exhaustion, they never gave up, never fell back.

  Amazingly, they fought until the last of the soldiers fell to the ground.

  Then, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, Rory looked around for the

  one he'd come seeking. Though his right arm hung limply at his side,

  and his clothes were soaked with blood, the blaze of fury was still in

  his eyes.

  "You cannot hide, Tilden. Show yourself, coward."

  One of his men threw an arm around his shoulders. "Come, Rory. We

  must flee. There are more soldiers aboard the English ship. You can

  be certain a coward like Tilden wouldn't fight alone. He's surely gone

  for reinforcements."

  "I want him. I've come too far to turn away now."

  "Nay, friend. Come. You've lost too much blood. We must flee now,

  while we can still walk. Thus will we live to fight another day."

  As Rory was led away he stumbled, righted himself, then moved

  numbly through the crowd.

  AnnaClaire watched as the people surged forward, forming a

  protective wall of humanity so that their hero and his ragged band

  could melt away in the crowd.

  "Well. That was quite a spectacle." She got to her feet, dusting off her

  skirts. "I can see why Rory O'Neil is called the Blackhearted O'Neil.

  But I..." She turned toward the place where the young woman had

  been kneeling beside her. But she and her child were gone.

  AnnaClaire frowned. All these people, it would seem, had a habit of

  simply disappearing into thin air.

  "Thank you, Tavis." AnnaClaire watched as her driver hung the pen

  holding the chicken at the rear of her open carriage.It had taken more

  than an hour to make her way through the milling throngs, especially

  since she'd been forced to wait until one of the v
endors retrieved his

  scattered chickens.

  "I hope Bridget is sufficiently grateful for all we went through to

  bring home supper."

  "Aye, my lady. But when you taste what my Bridget can do with one

  little chicken, 'tis you who'll be grateful."

  She laughed as Tavis Murphy gave her a hand up. She settled herself

  comfortably, arranging her skirts as the carriage jolted ahead. She

  gave a glance around. "I believe we've lost my lap robe."

  "Nay, my lady. The day is warm. I set it in back, out of the way."

  "Thank you, Tavis."

  He nodded in acknowledgment. "'Twill be slow going, my lady." He

  pulled back on the reins and brought the horse and carriage to a walk.

  "I don't mind. After all I've seen today, I'll just sit here and catch my

  breath."

  "You saw the battle then?" He steered around a cluster of men and

  women who were still talking and gesturing.

  "It was right before my eyes."

  He half turned. "You saw our Blackhearted O'Neil?"

  She nodded. "I saw him."

  "Handsome devil, I'm told."

  "Some might say that. The devil part at least. I'd calf him dangerous.

  And violent."

  "Aye, he's violent. A man of deep passion, I've heard. But with good

  reason. His bride-to-be was brutalized and murdered on their

  wedding day."

  She felt a quick jolt, then swept it aside. ' 'From what I saw today, he's

  more than made up for one woman's death. Do you know how many

  English women will weep and mourn the loss of husbands and sons

  this day?"

  Tavis held his silence, and concentrated on urging the horse through

  the maze of carts and wagons and people.

  AnnaClaire recognized his silence as disapproval. She studied her

  driver's profile. Though Tavis and his wife Bridget were paid

  handsomely for their services to her father, she had no illusions about

  their loyalty. This was their land; these were their people. And though

  her mother had been born and raised in Dublin, AnnaClaire was

  considered an outsider. Her mother, Margaret Doyle, had married an

  English nobleman, and had educated her own daughter in London.

  "Here we are, my lady." Tavis brought the carriage to a halt and

  helped her down. "I'll see that Bridget gets the chicken right away."

  ' 'Thank you, Tavis." She turned toward the door, then turned back as

  the carriage jolted ahead. "Oh, wait. My lap robe."