He flicked it with his thumb. “It belonged to the O’Meara. General Desmond thinks I should wear it.”
“Then it is to show us you are the master?”
He was getting fed up with the way people harped on about it. He said curtly, “If you like.”
She lowered her head, her voice almost inaudible. “Does that mean you’ll be sending for me tonight?”
In his confusion, he trod on her foot. God! Was the Ice Maiden seeking a summons? He opened, then shut his mouth. Couldn’t ask questions like that. In a carefully neutral voice he asked, “Did you not get the summons yet?”
She shook her head, mute, waiting for him to invite her personally. He couldn’t speak. His tongue was swollen and dry. He scanned the crowd, seeking the corporal. When was the man supposed to deliver the summons, anyway? Had he forgotten it? And everyone wanting to know. The reception was turning into a bloody shambles. Liam choked, flushed, then managed to say, “Excuse me—got to see my corporal about something.”
He released her, casting aside manners and propriety, and pushed blindly off the dance floor. Damn everything! He couldn’t face Brege’s mute curiosity. He ran from the hall, ignoring the startled glances of other guests, heading for the Fist, hating Brege, hating General bloody Desmond, and most of all, hating himself.
He found the general in his parlor, with Kevin Murphy, the vet. The general waved cheerily. “You survived the ordeal, then, Me Lord?”
Liam held tight on to his temper. “Just when is that corporal supposed to hand over the summons?”
The general frowned in thought. “I told him to hang on until the ‘do’ had quieted a bit. Lot of people leave early. Didn’t want to upset too many folk if they didn’t like you emulating the O’Meara.”
“Oh!” Liam’s anger drained away. As usual, the general had acted for the best. “Well, he was still hanging on to it when I left, and the O’Malley women are going nuts waiting. I got the impression that Brege expects to be summoned. Her ma is all for it.”
The general nodded. “Just as well. If the young lady should refuse, you could clap her parents in jail until she changed her mind. We did that once, early on, Kevin—remember?”
Kevin Murphy nodded. “Niver a bit of trouble in Barley Cross after that. Might be a good idea to throw somebody into the cooler right now. Twould establish Liam’s authority for sure.”
The general rubbed his chin reflectively. “Young Kennedy might be a suitable candidate. It’d keep him out of the way, too.” The general considered Liam. “We can’t maintain a permanent guard on your bedroom, unfortunately. It could mean telling them too much. But if you have any trouble with young Kennedy, Kevin and I will be standing by. Just ring for Michael and we’ll come running.”
Liam hid his embarrassment. Thank goodness he had kept his feelings about the general to himself. He murmured, “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll keep it in mind.”
A cool breeze wafted through the open window. Liam sat by the bed, one hand gripping the O’Meara’s heavy old revolver concealed beneath the counterpane. Christie Kennedy must surely have heard the news by now. Michael had reported the honor guard’s return over half an hour ago. Was Christie shirking it? He had always been a bit of a blowhard at school. But when your wife’s honor was in question…?
Something whizzed past Liam’s head, and struck the wall behind him. He turned in astonishment. The feathered butt of an arrow projected from the plaster. He swiveled back to discover Christie Kennedy astride his windowsill, a stretched bow in his hands, and an arrow lined up on Liam’s breast bone.
“Right, you bastard!” Christie gritted, swaying.
For a brief moment Liam considered, and rejected, the response the O’Meara might have made to that epithet. After all, both he and Christie were bastards. But Christie was drunk, and probably immune to reasoning.
Liam moved to face him, coughing to hide the clink of the chain mail he wore under his shirt. “What do you want, Christie?”
Christie Kennedy’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Only your signature on a bit of paper that says you cancel the summons your bloody corporal just gave my Brege.”
Liam pondered. Christie’s attention had to be diverted while he got the gun out of hiding. No arrow could penetrate his medieval underwear, but what if Christie aimed for the head? He needed outside help. Liam called softly, “Katy!”
The door to his private bathroom opened, and Katy Monaghen sauntered into the bedroom. She wore bright red brassiere and briefs. A black satin suspender belt supported a pair of black stockings that left on show the top six inches of her creamy thighs. A red satin rosette decorated her right knee.
“Hi, Christie!” she called.
“Jesus!” The arrow tip wavered. Liam had the gun out, covering him, but it was unnecessary.
Christie said thickly, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Kate Monaghen smiled sweetly. “I’m protecting our master from the attentions of ardent young hooligans like you.”
“And drop that bow, or I’ll blow your arse off,” Liam added.
Christie lowered the bow, as though in a dream, not even looking at Liam. “Why are you dressed like that, Katy?”
She minced toward the window, and took the bow from Christie’s nerveless fingers.
“Come on in!” Liam urged. “We want to talk to you.”
Dazedly, Christie got his other leg over the sill.
Kate said, “I thought it might remind you of old times, Christie.”
Christie dragged the heel of his thumb across his forehead, his eyes on Kate’s plump bottom as she turned to prop his bow in a corner. “Jesus!” he muttered. “I’ve drunk too much.”
“Is that where you got the nerve from?” Liam asked.
Kate flashed him a glance. “Cut that out, Liam. And put that gun away. It won’t be necessary.”
She turned back to Christie. “You’re all worked up about Liam’s droyt doo seenyer, aren’t you, lad? Would you sooner he ignored Brege? Especially when every bride in the village since the year dot has been honored by a summons to the master’s bed.”
“If you can call it an honor,” Christie mumbled slackly.
“Here, hold on!” Kate’s voice rose in protest. “Is that what you thought when you visited me last summer?”
“Ah—no!” Christie showed confusion. “That was different. I mean—I paid you.”
“Oh?” Kate registered surprise. “You mean, if Liam gives Brege money, everything will be all right?”
“No, I—I didn’t mean that.” Christie’s eyes rolled wildly. “You’re getting me confused, Katy.”
She sat down beside him on the window ledge. “Sure, ‘tis yerself is responsible, Christie boy.” She addressed Liam. “Could you lend us a spare bedroom—and a bottle? The lad’s worn out with excitement. He could do with a lie-down. I might even keep him company.”
Christie looked owlishly at Liam. “Do you think it’s an honor?”
Liam gazed back levelly, conscious that the day hung in the balance. He said, “I wouldn’t do it unless.” Suddenly inspired—since he hadn’t spoken to Christie’s mother—he added, “Just ask your ma what she thinks of it.”
Christie’s face sobered momentarily. “Can’t figure it out. My old lady is all for it. She told me not to do anything daft.”
Kate slipped a bare arm round his neck. “And you’re not going to, honey, are you? Not when your ma says you mustn’t.”
Liam pushed the revolver into his belt. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll see if there’s a bed made up.” He didn’t dare ring for Michael and have Larry Desmond and Kevin Murphy charging in to the rescue. He jerked a thumb at the delicate inlaid cabinet across the room. “There’s a bottle and glasses in there, Katy. Would you offer our guest a drink?”
General Desmond wagged his head in reluctant approbation. “I dunno how you’ve done it, Me Lord, but you seem to have pulled it off.”
Liam grinned deprecatingly. “Well—�
� He had thought of fetching Kate Monaghen in the first place. “It was Kate who did it, really.”
Kevin Murphy’s glass clinked against the bottle. “And with luck, she’ll keep him quiet all night.”
Larry Desmond laughed. “It’s a change from the way Pat would have worked it. Kind of ironic, if Christie is giving Kate a tumble in one room while Liam–”
“That’ll do!” the vet warned. “If Celia were here you wouldn’t dare talk like that.” He grinned. “Still and all, young Christie won’t want to shout too loud in the morning.” He raised his glass. “Glory be, Larry—I think we picked a winner!”
Larry Desmond smiled sourly. “Let’s wait and see how he copes with the Ice Maiden. I reckon she’ll be a harder nut to crack.”
Liam closed the bedroom door behind them. The house was quiet. Brege Kennedy still wore her wedding dress. She stood silent in the center of the room, not looking at the turned-down bed, nor at the flowers in the vase on the dresser.
Liam rubbed his hands together nervously. “Would you like a drink, Brege?”
She shot him a pleading glance. “You know I don’t touch strong drink, Me Lord.”
He blinked. “It don’t have to be spirits. I could wake Michael to make us a sup of tay.”
“I think I would like that.”
He rang for the servant, then motioned to one of the well-padded armchairs. “Sit down, Brege. Make yourself comfortable.”
They sat in silence until Michael appeared. Then in silence again until he reappeared with teapot, milk jug, sugar basin, cups, and saucers on a silver salver. When he had gone, Liam cleared his throat, and stammered, “Look, Brege—this is no easier for me than it is for you.” It stole into his mind, then, that if they didn’t do it, no one would be any the wiser. And it would save both of them a deal of grief. And, of course, it would be cheating.
Brege gave him an angry look. “Then why do you insist on having me here?”
He was taken aback. “Hasn’t your ma told you?”
She lowered her face, staring at her hands on her lap. “My ma said I ought to come. She thinks it’s an honor.”
“Is that all she told you?” Liam was beginning to realize just how well the secret of Barley Cross was kept.
She frowned. “What else should she have said? That you’ll put her and me dad in jail if I don’t do what you want?”
“Ah—no, Brege. Something more serious than that.” Liam hesitated. It appeared to be his prerogative who got let into the secret. He said, “I’d better tell you, lass. I am the only fertile man in the village. If we don’t do it tonight, you’ll—you’ll never have any children. And if every bride refused to go to bed with me, in fifty years or so, Barley Cross would be a mausoleum.”
She was staring wildly at him. “But, Liam—it’s a sin! We’d be committing adultery!”
He winced. Hadn’t he known Saint Brege would come up with something like this? He said desperately, “If you weren’t really married, we wouldn’t. I don’t want to cast doubts on your marriage, but if a man isn’t able to consummate it—there’s no marriage. Ask Father Con.”
She bridled. “I can’t talk to Father Con about that kind of thing. Anyway, it’s only if a feller knows beforehand that he’s infertile that the marriage is invalidated.”
Liam said gently, “And we don’t want to find that out, do we? So if you do what I ask tonight, any child you might have could just as easy be Christie’s.”
She turned impulsively toward him. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. “Is it the truth you’re telling me, Liam McGrath?”
“So help me, God.” Liam crossed himself. “It’s all a plan the council cooked up, years ago. If your ma and my ma hadn’t gone along with it, neither you nor me would be here upsetting each other.”
“But why must it be you?” she pleaded. “Why not my Christie?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “It just so happens that Eileen is having another child. Tommy may have been the O’Meara’s, but this second one must be mine. It seems that I, out of all the lads in Barley Cross, have inherited the O’Meara’s peculiar genes.”
She sniffed. “What does your Eileen think of it?”
“She ain’t too happy,” he admitted. “But she’s agreed to put up with it for the same reasons everybody else does.”
Brege dabbed her eyes with a scrap of linen. “Do we do it just the once?”
“So far as I know,” he said gently. “If you don’t conceive—it’s just your bad luck.”
She peeped up, hiding her face behind the handkerchief. “I’m shy, Liam. I’ve never done it before.”
He sighed with relief. He was over the hurdle. It was now just a matter of patience and understanding. Barley Cross would never know its luck. He said gently, “I’ll show you how.”
She took a quick sip at a cup of cold tea. “Could we have the light out, please?”
The full council met in Liam’s parlor the following day. Brege Kennedy was safely away to the new house her husband’s da had built for her—and where she would find her new husband snoring in the bed. Kate Monaghen was safely back in her cottage down the mill lane, richer by a tablet of toilet soap and a bottle of French perfume. And Liam McGrath was hoping that his Eileen would not be too curious about the events of the previous night when she returned from her ma’s.
Liam straightened his hair, and joined the council.
General Desmond looked up. “Ah, Liam—you’ve come to report success, I hope?”
Kevin Murphy said dryly, “By the smirk on his face, I should imagine that he has.”
Liam said, keeping his voice even, “I did what was required.”
“Hark now!” The general lifted a finger. “Has he, or hasn’t he?”
Dr. Denny Mallon removed an empty pipe from his mouth. “The master just told us he has, General.”
The general wagged a finger. “But not in so many words, Doctor. What if he and our Ice Maiden decided to fool us all, and just pretend they’d done it? Not every marriage in the village is blessed with offspring. We’d never know they’d conned us.”
Liam glanced from one to the other. Obviously, they had already been discussing him.
Celia Larkin looked up from her knitting. “Are you accusing our new master of lying, Larry Desmond?”
The general’s jaw dropped. Histrionically, Liam divined.
“I never said so,” Larry Desmond protested. “I’d just prefer a more positive assurance than he has given us so far.”
The schoolmistress lowered her knitting. “If you’re wanting a blow-by-blow description of the exploit, you’ll have to manage without my presence.”
“Ah no, Celia.” Dr. Denny waved his pipe. “That ain’t necessary. If Liam says the job’s done, then done it is.”
“Hold on now!” Kevin Murphy sat up straight. “If the job’s been done, then surely Liam can tell us something that would prove he’s handing us the truth. Something maybe Denny, here, could confirm. Has the lady a mole on her person, for instance?”
Four pairs of eyes turned on Liam. He shifted his feet uneasily. “Sure, she insisted on the light going out,” he protested.
General Desmond cackled harshly. “Wouldn’t you know there’d be a snag? I had a feeling that the Christie victory was just a flash in the pan.”
“That’s quite enough, Larry Desmond,” Celia Larkin snapped. “You agreed to his being made master. If you trusted him then, why can’t you trust him now?”
Why not indeed, Liam agreed silently. But then, the general hadn’t been faced by a tyro tyrant refusing to wear a uniform until yesterday. And when puppets don’t work properly you lose faith in them.
“Enough!” Denny Mallon exploded. “Let the master be!” He turned to Liam. “Tell them, son!”
Liam made sheep’s eyes at the doctor. “But it’s her secret! Brege will never forgive me if I let it out.”
“Tell us what?” demanded the general. “Have you two been cooking something up betwee
n you?”
“Tell them!” thundered the doctor. “They’ll never be satisfied until they know.” He glowered around the room, as if daring anyone to contradict him. “And, remember—anything said at this council meeting is as inviolate as the confessional.”
Liam shook his head in disgust. So much for promises made in the dark. Poor Ice Maiden! Her secret divulged to protect the master’s probity.
Reluctantly, he told them: “Brege Kennedy has a deformity she don’t like anyone knowing about—except people like Dr. Denny, who have to know. Brege isn’t cold, nor pious, nor shy. It’s just she has knock-knees.”
The Roman Centurion’s Song, by Rudyard Kipling
Editor’s Introduction
Queen Boadicea lost her final battle in her revolt against Rome, but the result was not what she had feared. Rome came to conquer, but there remained remnants of the old notion that the mission of Rome was “to protect the weak and make humble the proud.” Rome didn’t exterminate the Britons; instead, the Britons became Romans, and more important, Romans became British. They came as conquerors and remained as protectors. Then, three hundred years later, barbarians swarmed through Europe, and the Legions withdrew from Roman Britain. Kipling tells of one Roman officer ordered “home.”
The story is also told in Stephen Vincent Benet’s The Last of the Legions; and peripherally in the brilliant new series The King of Ys by Poul and Karen Anderson.
The Roman Centurion’s Song
Rudyard Kipling
ROMAN OCCUPATION OF BRITAIN, A.D. 300
Legate, I had the news last night—my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I’ve marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
I’ve served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall.
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
There Will Be War Volume VII Page 10
