Past a church, down a wide street, twisting and wriggling among the throng. Roddy began to think the child was leading her a dance; it seemed that they must have doubled back twice, and she could smell again the evening odor rising off the river. Rumors flew—reports that shadowy figures had been seen assembling in the churchyard they’d just passed, where pikes were buried by the hundreds; that rebel couriers had been heard to cry, “Liberty, and no King!”; that mounted sentries posted outside the city had been driven in by the rebels advance guard; that a secret column of rebel sympathizers was already among them, preparing to set fire to the House of Parliament. At one point they scraped by a crowd of well-dressed women, and Roddy heard one arguing strenuously that she and her companions should seek the protection of a Mr. Beresford at his “interrogation center.”
The thought of being caught between Unitedmen and loyalists in the narrow, packed streets was terrifying. “Here ’tis, mum!” the urchin cried, before Roddy could decide whether or not she should try to join the group of ladies. She looked up at the dark windowless walls of the prison in despair, not knowing what she was doing there, not wanting to believe that Earnest and Geoffrey were really barred behind those stones, liable to be executed at any moment in the rising tide of fear.
The child hugged her hips, holding out one thin hand. The crowd was thinner here, and Roddy had room to bend and take off her shoe, slipping out the emergency shilling her mother had taught her to carry always. The boy grabbed it and vanished into the growing darkness.
Roddy stood, indecisive and miserable. The prison itself drew her, though she was sure that she would never find Davan here. She doubted he had made it this far.
There seemed nowhere else to go. An alley beckoned, walled on one side by the prison, on the other by the backs of closed and boarded shops, mercifully empty of yeomen or confused citizens. She slipped between two arguing university students and sought the relief of a space of solitude. She could not plunge back into the surge of people, not yet. Drawing a breath of river-laden air, she moved down the narrow lane.
With relief, she relaxed her taut barriers, keeping alert for any threat. Never had she been alone in a city. It scared her more than being lost in the black night at Iveragh. Her fears then had been mostly in her mind, but here the danger was painfully real.
She heard the intruders enter the alley before she could separate them from the crowd-mind that she’d set at a distance. Quickly, she drew back into a doorway, batting aside a rug that had been left out to air. It took no effort to focus on the strangers approaching. They were already at a fever pitch of excitement, and their intentions reached her with blazing clarity.
Her fingers closed and twisted at her skirt as she recognized Davan’s wild enthusiasm among the approaching group. They spoke in whispers that kept breaking to agitated louder speech.
“’Tis the only chance,” someone hissed. “Without the rest of ’em. It’s been done before, mark me—if no one falters, we can make it.”
“Och, are we here to falter?” That was Davan. “I’m a Kerryman—I’ve run cargo past the King’s best men and thumbed my nose.”
There was a scuffle. “Go on, I’ve thumbed me nose a’ a few Orangemen in me own day. You’ll be bringin’ up me rear on that ladder, Kerryman.”
“Shut it,” another voice warned. “’Tis no schoolboy prank. We should have been thirty, and with a horse waitin’ to take him. We’ll likely die of this, takin’ it on with half a dozen.”
“Are you afraid of it?” Davan’s voice dripped scorn. “’Tis a fine enough way to die.”
They were directly opposite Roddy now. She heard something metal clatter, and a pike fell at her feet, its blade glittering underneath the rug in the last of light.
“I’m not afraid.” That was a lie, fierce and quick. The rush of feet carried them all past her. “Lay down your weapon, and I’ll be glad enough to show you with my bare hands!”
“Give over. We’ve no time for that. Where’s the rope?”
“Who’s going up?” someone asked. The voice’s owner had to work hard to keep it from shaking with excitement and fright.
“We’ll draw lots. Hand in your cockades. Green go up; white take the gate.”
“I haven’t one,” Davan said impatiently. He was torn, not sure if the assault by ladder or front entrance would be more heroic.
Roddy drew in a breath, preparing to step out and put a stop to this nonsense, when the one who seemed in command said, “Those that go over the top—don’t waste time looking for Lord Edward. Just finish off the first guard you see, take their keys, and start opening doors while we have them distracted in front.”
She had a sudden, wild change of heart, a thought that perhaps they could do it. If Earnest happened to be in the right cell…
“My friends,” a new voice said, low and smooth and startlingly familiar. “I don’t believe you’ll be distracting anyone just now.”
Roddy’s stomach went liquid with shock. She made a move for the rug, pulling back the folds, peering through the dimness at the little knot of men in the alley and the broad back of the redcoated and bewigged British officer who held them at pistol point.
She knew that back. She knew that voice, and the unmistakable taut grace. She knew every muscle and limb of the man who held a gun pointed at Davan’s head.
Chapter 23
“Iveragh,” Davan said. At first it was only stunned surprise, but an instant later the youth put the uniform and the man together. “Great God, you’re a King’s man!”
“Your acuteness astounds me,” Faelan said flatly. “You and your companions may lay down your pikes.”
Davan took a breath, and tightened his grip on his pike handle. His companions stood straighter behind him.
“Lay it down,” Faelan said.
Roddy bit down on her tongue, holding back sick fear. She could not allow Faelan to murder a silly boy for his silly dreams of glory. Her husband could do it; had done it—Geoffrey had been witness. And the wild chance—maybe the only chance—to save Earnest and Geoffrey was evaporating before her eyes.
The pistol didn’t waver, still aimed at Davan’s forehead. Roddy’s eyes stung with fright. Any moment—any moment and the gun would explode and Davan would crumple, shot down like the cattle at Iveragh. Roddy swallowed bile. She held the curtain back and bent over, easing the pike at her feet upward into her hands. Her heart was pounding so that her fingers would hardly move for their shaking. She felt Davan’s second shock as he recognized her behind Faelan in the shadows.
Davan blinked and then stared at the pistol, unable to accept the possibility that it might be his death. It seemed to him only a piece of metal, but as he looked at it he had a vision, clear and graphic, of what it might feel like to take a ball between the eyes.
He dropped the pike.
“The rest,” Faelan said. When no one else obeyed, he cocked the gun. “Do you dislike your Kerryman so much?”
One by one, the other four pikes fell with a clatter onto the pavement.
The young rebels all had the sense to keep their faces under control as Roddy lifted her weapon and slid one foot silently out into the alley. She had to remind herself to breathe. The pike handle was smooth and heavy in her hands, with a damp spot where it had fallen in a tiny puddle. She took another stealthy step, coming into the open.
“You won’t turn us in,” Davan said. “You wouldn’t.” It was half to gain time, that question, and half a real fear. His eyes were locked on Faelan, trying to gauge Roddy’s slinking approach from the shadows. Sweet Mary, will she hit him? Her own husband…
Roddy took another step, and another, and suddenly she was within range of Faelan’s head with the pike handle.
“I ought to,” Faelan said, “God knows, you’re an inconvenience to me.”
Roddy’s grip tightened. It seemed impossible that he did not know she was there.
Davan’s eyes narrowed. “Bastard,” he said softly. He had to s
train to keep his eyes from Roddy. “Damned slimy informer.”
“Don’t try my patience, O’Connell. You have half a minute to disappear.”
Roddy stood, within range, with the pike handle lifted to deliver the blow. She held it there, staring at her husband’s unprotected back.
I’m here, she cried silently. Don’t you know I’m here?
Davan’s lip curled. “You peached on the others, didn’t you? ’Twas you who put Lord Geoffrey’s head in a noose.”
And my brother’s. Oh, God—Faelan…
“I’ll not listen to that,” he snapped. “Get out of here, you damned bumbling puppy.”
He motioned with the gun. Davan’s eyes widened, but he stood his ground, expecting Roddy to strike. Her arms were trembling under the weight of the weapon, and still she did not swing.
Davan took a breath. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead in his impatience for Roddy to move. Hit him, Davan screamed in his mind. Hit him now.
A huge lump built in her throat. She swallowed, and swallowed again. Her eyes began to blur.
Do it, Davan urged. For God’s sake, do it!
The pike burned her palms. She could not breathe. A hot tear slid down her cheek.
Hit him! Davan was verging on hysteria. Hit him, hit him, hit him!
“I can’t!” she sobbed.
Faelan jerked around.
She saw Davan move, diving for the pike and sweeping it up into a murderous thrust. Roddy screamed. Her arms moved without her mind’s command, swinging her weapon in one long, violent arc. The passage seemed to take place like a strange, slow dance: she heard the whistle of the handle through the air, saw Faelan duck and evade, saw Davan’s pike rise up toward Faelan’s chest…and then felt impact shudder through her body as the wood in her hands met the steel point of the other pike and smashed them both into splinters against the pavement. An instant later, Faelan completed his own lithe turn with a blow that took Davan down in an explosion of pain and blackness.
The youth hit the pavement, already unconscious. His companions fled, all but one, who only hesitated long enough to see Faelan take aim again with the pistol.
Her husband caught her with his free hand as the others disappeared, curling his fingers around the nape of her neck. “Little bitch—you stupid little ass—did you talk them into that insanity?” He let her go with a hard shove that sent her stumbling to her knees. “You won’t get your precious lover free with those buffoons, but you came damned close to murdering me, didn’t you? Get up.”
He dragged her up by her shoulder, trapping her wrists behind her back. She whimpered, not fighting, finding her legs somehow outside her command. She leaned into his familiar strength in complete surrender. With an oath, he slid his arm around her shoulders, half pushing and half carrying her back toward the main thoroughfare.
At the corner of the alley, he fought through the crowd along the stone wall of Newgate. Soldiers still milled outside the prison gates. Faelan stopped a few yards from the entrance, glaring down at her. “You want Geoffrey and your brother out?” he hissed. “Stand here and watch.”
He left her with her knees wilting in delayed reaction. His figure melted into the throng, lost quickly among the others in the last vestiges of twilight. At the gates, lamps were lit, shedding pools of yellow illumination down onto the guarded entrance.
Roddy stared numbly at the prison entrance, still shaking too much to question or think. A few moments later, a scarlet-coated officer parted from the crowd. He strode directly to the guardhouse and returned the salute of the soldier on duty.
Roddy stood bolt upright.
With an effort of will, she focused her talent, too late to catch the guard’s thoughts before he took some papers from Faelan’s hand and disappeared. Faelan stood back, just inside the gate, his hands behind his back and his feet spread in an attitude of careless patience.
A long time went by. Roddy stared at him, her lips parted, while her sluggish mind finally began to awaken to the moment. The last of the day faded, and the night was full of hysterical laughter and uneasy people. The rest of the lamps were dark; up and down the street the crowd was lost in shadow. Only the prison gate was a pool of mellow light.
It came upon her slowly. No thunderous revelation, but something like the soft mists of Iveragh, that crept through her and filled her, twining around her heart and squeezing. She looked at Faelan and wanted to cry for the mistake she’d made in judging him. He stood motionless in the center of the light, his face obscured by the shako’s brim. A King’s man, in a uniform that when she looked closely did not quite fit: too tight across the shoulders, too generous around his lean waist.
She had not been able to hit him. Not because she was too weak or too noble to take a man down from behind. She would have struck Davan senseless in an instant if the threat had been reversed.
No, her hesitation had not been weakness. It had been a choice.
I love you, she thought, gazing at his still figure. I love you. No matter what.
Faelan straightened. The returning guard passed back papers, and Roddy felt familiar minds. A spike of wild hope shot through her. Between four yeoman guards and the jailer, Earnest and Geoffrey appeared in the gate.
The papers came out again. Roddy watched in a misery of tension as the jailer looked at each one carefully. She narrowed her gift, straining to find his thoughts among the crowd. It was impossible. She caught his doubt, a sense that this release of prisoners was peculiar, but the pitch of strain from Earnest and Geoffrey mixed with the jailer’s concern and the crowd’s babble, until she could make nothing clear.
She saw Faelan shrug in answer to a query that was lost to her ears in the noise. He waved a hand toward the crush outside the gate.
Shorthanded, that seemed to mean.
The jailer looked again at Faelan, and even through the confusion, she could feel his meteoric rise in suspicion. He asked Faelan something else, but before her husband answered, a disturbance rippled through the crowd outside. A heavy, shambling man began shouting and waving toward the prison, and as everyone stopped to look, his drunken oaths rose above the throng—wild, incoherent curses directed at the jailer.
The jailer looked that way, stretching up to see through the crowd. His hand with Faelan’s papers fell to his side. A whisper and then a roll of recognition went through the street. “Neilson,” she heard someone say. “By God, isn’t that Sam Neilson?”
The huge drunk stumbled about in the little open space the crowd made for him. “Gregg,” he shouted, and the jailer turned sharply around. “I’m back! I’m back! You been—” He swung around, nearly falling. “Uni—united! We’re come! A damned, damned—Gregg! You hear me?” He laughed. “You, boy, you damned—boy—”
Roddy held her breath. The crowd was tightening, closing in on the drunken man. “’Tis that printer—the Northern Star—” she heard. “—was he out?” “—sedition—four years ago—” “—paroled him, but he’s in it again—” The jailer had turned to the yeoman guards. They formed into a quick knot, and slipped out into the street. An instant later they surrounded the big man. Danger suddenly seemed to penetrate his besotted brain; he bellowed something and charged the guard, swinging wildly. The scene erupted into a brawl. Roddy backed against the wall, and found herself jerked roughly away from it. Faelan’s hands shoved at her, and she had a moment’s image of his face, locked in concentration. “The alley!” he shouted, and then Earnest was there, his hands bound behind his back, looking at Roddy for the way to go.
She grabbed his elbow and turned, pushing toward safety. Once someone flew against her, knocking her breathless against the wall. She staggered, still clinging to Earnest’s arm while he braced. “Hold on,” he yelled, setting his feet against the crush from behind. She dragged herself upright, catching a glimpse of Geoffrey and Faelan behind. Her husband’s intent face steadied the rising fear in her—Faelan was thinking, he was not panicking, and she could do the same.
&nbs
p; Think. Hold Earnest’s arm and don’t let go. One step, dodge. Think. The sudden fight was dying, people were looking at her strangely. Suspiciously. Someone caught her shoulder. She let her knees go to water, sliding down out of the grip and yelling a fishwife’s imprecation in a drunken blur. She held on to Earnest and rubbed herself against him. Another hand came down on her shoulder, hard, and Faelan dragged her up like a drowned kitten. “He’s not much good in irons, my pretty.” He swept her into his arms and pushed on. “Spend your wares on a man with his hands free.”
Suspicion dissolved into knowing laughter. The crowd of loyalists suddenly seemed to think Faelan might need help with his prisoners. A few opened way, hissing at Earnest and Geoffrey as they passed. The mood began to darken, but the alley loomed ahead, barely visible as a deeper shadow in the unlit facade. Roddy slipped out of Faelan’s arms, and stumbled into the open space. She turned in the pitch black and found her brother and Geoffrey shoved in behind her.
Roddy sat her saddle on a stolen horse by willpower alone. Dawn brought a tinge of color to the surroundings, giving line and definition to the rich fields and hedgerows and the mountains to the east. It was her fourth dawn in which the sun seemed an enemy, a blazing beacon rising to shine down and expose their small party to the forces which now burned over the land.
No rebels had materialized that night in Dublin, but the imagined United army which had thrown the capital into a frenzy had become a reality in the counties outside. On the midnight ride out of the city Roddy had experienced her first taste of murder—vicious murder, when the mail coach ahead of them on the Cork road had been halted and burned by the rebels, and the passengers hacked to death.
They’d been too far away to see it, she and Earnest and Geoffrey, but her gift had frozen her in the pain and bloody terror as they stood in the dark and waited for Faelan to return with a report of the bonfire that lit the horizon. Earnest held her in front of him on his horse while she shook too much to control her own. When Faelan returned, he said little, but it was enough. They turned away from the main road.
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