The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  Seeing the expression on his face, Hammersmith gave a satisfied nod. “Mild as new milk, eh? The Irish make good whiskey and comely women.”

  Wesley was disinclined to pursue the topic. “Why do you insist on marching now? Wouldn’t it be safer to take Rafferty first?”

  Hammersmith slapped his hand over the papers by the map. “New orders. I tell you, you’re wrong about Rafferty, and I can spare you no men. Cromwell’s son, Henry, wants that port now.”

  For God’s sake, Wesley thought, isn’t the entire east of Ireland enough?

  “We’re to garrison an abandoned stronghold on the western shore of Lough Corrib,” said Hammersmith. “After that’s established, we’ll march up from the south and take Clonmuir in a pincer movement.”

  Crushing Caitlin MacBride’s home like a grape in a winepress, raping the women, and turning the battle-maddened survivors out to starve.

  “Damn it!” Wesley slammed his empty glass on the desk. “Rafferty’s your man! Take his stronghold instead.”

  Lifting an eyebrow up into his lovelocks, Hammersmith studied his guest. “What is it about Clonmuir that fires your passions?”

  Wesley immediately saw his mistake. Never show you care, he reminded himself. He should have learned that lesson with Laura. He evaded the question with one of his own. “Have you been sent reinforcements?”

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you think your march will succeed this time?”

  Hammersmith’s smile was the cold curve of a brandished blade. “Don’t be modest, my friend. This time, I have you.”

  * * *

  “Pissing Irish weather,” muttered Edmund Ladyman, a soldier riding beside Wesley.

  A clod of mud flung up by a horse’s hoof struck Wesley on the knee. “I’m with you there,” he said as the mud slid down into his cuffed boot.

  The roadway had been churned up by hundreds of hooves and the iron-bound wheels of supply carts. A thick mist surrounded the plodding army, turning the woods into a dark, dripping prison of lichened trees. Since the reign of Elizabeth, Englishmen had set themselves to the task of deforesting Ireland. But even the most greedy of shipbuilders hadn’t yet made a foray into the untamed western lands.

  Galway lay miles behind them, but the difficult part of their march still loomed ahead, in the crags of Connemara where secrets wafted on the wind and wild warriors hid in the fells.

  Wesley disliked Ladyman, a thick-lipped, foul-mouthed Republican from Kent. Wesley found that he disliked most of the English soldiers. But they had their uses. “Were you on the last march, Ladyman?” he asked.

  Ladyman tugged at the towel he wore beneath his helm to keep the rain off his neck. “Oh, aye. And the four bleedin’ marches before that as well.”

  “So you understand the way the Fianna works.”

  “Aye. Bastards always go after the supply carts, that’s why we’re riding behind them. They won’t be expecting that. Pillaging natterjacks. Stealing the food from our very mouths, they are.”

  “Probably because they’re starving.”

  “That’s the whole idea, eh?” Ladyman peered through the damp green gloom. “We’re safe hereabouts, ’deed we are. They never strike in daylight, sneaking bloody kerns.” A drop of rain gathered on the tip of his nose. With a curse, he wiped it on his sleeve.

  “So why do you carry on?”

  Ladyman regarded him with astonishment. “The friggin’ booty, what else?”

  “Any booty to be had in these parts has surely been picked over by now.”

  “I’m speaking of Clonmuir,” Ladyman replied. “There’s a treasure in that castle worth a king’s ransom.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s all the talk, has been for years.”

  Wesley shook his head and stared downward. Between his aching thighs, the sodden body of his cavalry mare plodded with patient stupidity. A shame he could not reveal that he had been at Clonmuir.

  Ladyman had been deceived, as had every other man who believed the tale. The advantage to Hammersmith was obvious. By enticing the men with the promise of rich spoils, he kept interest high and the desertion rate low.

  Ladyman rode with the careless ease of a professional soldier. The fool. There was no treasure at Clonmuir.

  Ah, but there was, he corrected himself. There was Caitlin MacBride. More precious than gold, she was a fiercely beautiful woman desperate to protect her own.

  He didn’t want to think about her. He had deceived her about his purpose. Now he was marching toward her home with an army. He couldn’t afford to harbor tenderness toward her.

  But thoughts of her dogged his path each day and plagued his sleep each night. In fact, he was dreaming of her one night as he slept in his damp bedroll near the banks of Lough Corrib. She stood on the strand amid a tumble of rocks. Proud and vulnerable, a look of stricken wonder on her face, the breeze blowing her tawny gold hair in billows about her shoulders. Her loose blouse seemed exotic in its simplicity; her feminine lines needed no molding by stays. He could sense her need, her desire, because within him burned an answering need of equal intensity.

  She lifted her arms and stepped toward him, reaching, smiling, as if he were the answer to her most cherished wish. He brushed his lips against hers, just so, increasing the pressure until she surged against him and cried out—

  “Guards!”

  Wesley sat straight up and blinked into the darkness.

  “Guards!”

  Scattered campfires burned low, throwing the huge shadows of hurrying men against a wall of woodland.

  “Guards!” The furious shout came from Hammersmith’s command tent. “Smith! Bell! Lamb! Front and center!”

  By the time Wesley reached the tent, the commander had lined up the night watch outside and was pacing in front of them, a quirt slapping his thigh. “Not one of you heard anything?”

  “Not a sound, Captain. I swear it, nary a peep. Naught but the whir of bats’ wings.”

  “Then how, pray,” said Hammersmith sarcastically, “do you explain this?” Between his thumb and forefinger Hammersmith dangled a freshly picked shamrock.

  “Why, these grow like weeds in Ireland, sir?”

  “Not on my chest while I sleep they don’t!” Titus Hammersmith roared. “Some sneaking Irish left it as a sort of sign, or—or—”

  “Warning?” asked Wesley. He moved toward the rear of the tent, which faced the rock-rimmed lake. He touched the canvas and saw where it had been slit with a knife. A grown man could never fit through the opening.

  Puzzled, Wesley entered the tent through the front. Torchlight from outside threw eerie shadows on the canvas. Hammersmith’s cot stood several feet from the opening. It was not simply a matter of reaching inside, then.

  “Here’s where the intruder entered.” Wesley indicated the sliced-open canvas. “Was anything else disturbed?”

  Hammersmith gave a cursory glance around. “No, I—” He tugged distractedly at a sausage curl. “Cut!” he roared, making Wesley jump. “By God, the Irish devil has cut a lock of my hair!” He stumbled back as if he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ve heard the old Celts use human hair in their spells.”

  “It could have been worse,” Wesley murmured. “The intruder could have slit your throat.” But he was beginning to understand the Irish character. They were warriors, not cold-blooded murderers.

  “Jesus, Captain,” said his lieutenant. “D’ye think one of ’em’s havin’ ye on?”

  “Shut up,” snapped Hammersmith. He whirled on Wesley. “Find the devils. Find them now.”

  * * *

  Wesley led a score of mounted warriors northward. The darkness hung thick around them, and the urge to light one of the pitch torches they had brought along was voiced by more than one soldier.

  Like the troops of cavalry, Wesley wore a buff coat of thick leather over back and breast armor, and the menacing iron headpiece which gave the Roundheads their name. In addition to the torches, they carried
swords, pikes, and pistols.

  The latent sense of decency that had driven him to the seminary at Douai tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. With an effort, he shrugged it off. Now was no time for scruples.

  They came to a great spill of rocks that rolled down toward the lake. The horses balked and had to be led around the rockfall. Wesley paused to search for a sign. Squinting in the gloom, he studied the dead grass that grew in the crevices.

  Before long he discovered a barely discernible depression in the mud, made by a small, broad foot. Christ, had the Irish enlisted children now?

  An owl hooted a breath of song into the night. A badger rooted in the damp leaves.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” muttered one of the men.

  Wesley leaned down to inspect a gorse bush. One branch had recently been broken. “No, we’re not,” he said.

  The hill rose to a ridge along the lake. The rocks formed a bowl around a small clearing, sharp peaks thrusting through the mist with a weird, stark beauty that captivated Wesley. For a moment he fancied himself gazing at a castle fashioned by giants. The lake lapped with a steady swish at the reedy shores.

  And over all hung a thick, pervasive, unnatural quiet that Wesley didn’t like in the least. As he reached up to pluck a swatch of flaxen fabric from a low-hanging branch, he understood why. He straightened and turned, apprehension clutching at his belly.

  His gaze darted over the area. Most of the Roundheads had descended to the clearing. Moonlight threw their shadows against the wall of rock opposite the lakeside. Directly ahead grew a thick forest, nearly as dark and impenetrable as the granite.

  The wind keened across the lake, carrying the smell of fresh water and something else, a faint animal scent. Guiding his horse down from the ridge, he joined his companions.

  “Well?” asked Ladyman.

  “The trail’s too obvious,” said Wesley.

  “Not to me,” said another soldier, scratching his brow beneath his round helm.

  “They want us to follow them.”

  “But why the devil would the bastards want that?” Ladyman demanded.

  Another Roundhead uncorked a bottle and took a drink of beer. “Hammersmith’s nervous,” he said. “He’s starting to believe in all those heathen Irish superstitions.”

  “I mislike this darkness,” a third man said, grabbing a bundle of torches and striking flint and steel.

  “Douse that!” Wesley ordered furiously. “For God’s sake, you’ll give away our pos—”

  But it was too late; the torch flared high, filling the air with the smell of pine pitch.

  Ladyman reached for the beer bottle. “Let him comfort himself with it. I say the captain’s imagining things.”

  “Did he imagine the shamrock?” Wesley challenged. “The shorn lock?”

  Ladyman shrugged, his armor creaking. “I have a keen nose for the stink of Irish. I don’t think there’s an Irishman within miles of this place.”

  “Fianna! Fianna e Eireann!”

  The full-throated bellow burst from the darkness.

  A rumble of hoofbeats pounded, the sound of a stampede out of control, coming at them from all sides. The man who had lit the torch fell, an arrow protruding from his neck. The bundle of torches caught fire, sizzling on the damp ground.

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Ladyman, wheeling his horse back toward the ridge. “Jesus Christ!”

  Wesley gripped the hilt of his sword. The blade hissed from its scabbard.

  As one, the party started back in the direction they’d come. A company of black-clad horsemen blocked the way.

  “To the woods!” Ladyman yanked his horse back around. He disappeared into the darkness. The other Englishmen drew swords and pistols.

  “We’re surrounded!” Ladyman’s desperate cry drifted across the field as he reappeared.

  The men on the ridge stood sentinel, fists raised, horses blowing mist into the moonlit night.

  “Fianna!”

  The shouts and hoofbeats drew nearer. An almost forgotten feeling rose inside Wesley. In a flash he recognized the taut sense of anticipation, the feel of the sword in his hand, the cold sense of purpose that closed over his soul.

  John Wesley Hawkins was ready to do battle. At the seminary at Douai, the priests had taught him to abhor violence. Yet all those values were scrubbed away by the dark, pounding thrill of impending action.

  For the past five years his battles had been fought in secret against an enemy he could not meet face-to-face. His only weapons had been words and deeds done in shadow. Now he rode with that very enemy as comrade.

  But now, oh, now, he was about to pit himself, sword to sword, against a flesh-and-blood foe. That he had no particular quarrel with the Irish mattered little. His daughter’s life depended on defeating these wild warriors.

  And defeat them he would. Unthinkingly he sketched the sign of the cross.

  Ladyman gasped. “What the bloody hell—”

  His words drowned in another flood of Gaelic shouting and galloping horses. Wesley’s gaze snapped from shadow to shadow at the fringe of the clearing. Their numbers too small to match the English, they had culled away this search party, ringing them on three sides and the ice-cold lake at their backs.

  The Irish came like nightmares borne on a foul wind, black-clad and licked by firelight, their old-fashioned helms bobbing with the rhythm of their horses. All wore breastplates emblazoned with a golden harp, and many had veils flowing from their helms.

  The Englishmen scattered. Gaelic shouts boomed across the field. The Irish ponies were more fleet and agile than the cavalry mounts.

  A large Irishman on a thick-limbed pony galloped to the fore. Rafferty? Wesley wondered, admiring the man’s skill.

  The warrior guided the horse with his knees alone. In one hand he held a short-handled ax, in the other, a large hammer. He swung the weapons with the ease of a reaper wielding a scythe. The hammer clapped against an English helm. The ax rived into an English breastplate. A hoarse bellow of agony rolled across the chill flat water.

  Wesley rode toward the aggressor. If it were Rafferty, he must be stopped. Leaderless, the Fianna would scatter; lives would be spared.

  The huge warrior on his dark horse spied Wesley. Sawing at the reins, he galloped across the uneven ground.

  “Oh, my God,” Wesley whispered. His sweat condensed inside the round helm, flooding him with the rusty iron taste of fear.

  The ax swung toward his head. Wesley ducked. “Jesus!” he yelled, wrestling his helm back in place.

  Wheeling the horse, the warrior charged again. Wesley swerved. The motion carried him out of the saddle and onto the hard ground. His horse ran away in panic.

  The warrior drew rein and turned for another charge.

  Wesley grasped one of the torches. Running backward, he ducked the ax and hammer and retreated toward the lake.

  Panting hollowly inside his helm, the warrior followed. Wesley waded in to his waist, his tender parts shrinking from the icy water. The bloody ax blade arced toward Wesley’s head.

  At the last possible moment, in that cold slice of time that determines whether a man lives or dies, Wesley thrust the flaming torch at the horse’s face.

  The beast skidded, splashing to a halt. The heavy rider pitched over the horse’s head and into the water. Wesley heard the dull snap of a breaking bone. The Irishman’s helm fell into the lake. In a blur, Wesley saw a mop of earth-colored hair. So his opponent hadn’t been Rafferty, after all.

  The horse sidled away, its reins trailing. Wesley vaulted into the saddle. Leaving the Irishman floundering in his heavy armor, Wesley galloped the horse out of the lake and into the fray.

  Some of the Roundheads had retreated into the water. Others made desperate attempts to flee into the woods. Two lay motionless on the ground. Those who remained had long since discharged their pistols and muskets, then flung them down, for they had no time to reload.

  The Irish fought with lus
ty vigor, howling and singing in their ancient tongue.

  Wesley rode toward them. An arrow buzzed past his head. Across the clearing sat a small man on a pony, nocking another arrow in a short bow. Wesley recalled the slit in Hammersmith’s tent; he’d lay odds he had found the culprit.

  Several yards away, another Irishman fell. With relief and astonishment, Wesley realized the Gaels were flagging. For all their fierce bravado, their numbers were small.

  He reined the horse toward another pocket of fighting. A motion caught his eye. He turned to see a warrior on a sleek horse sail across the clearing. Centaurlike, he rode with both hands free; one wielding a sword and the other a mace.

  Wesley sensed a strange power in the horseman. Perhaps it was a trick of the uncertain firelight, but an aura seemed to hover about the warrior, drawing the eye and evoking a feeling of awe mixed with dread. The very sight of the warrior brought fresh war cries springing from the enemies’ throats.

  Bending low over the horse’s neck, Wesley charged.

  Lithe as a dancer, the leader of the Fianna guided the beautiful horse in an expertly carved loop. Wesley’s swinging sword hissed through empty air. The iron-spiked mace crashed against his shoulder.

  Ignoring the numbness that spread down his arm, Wesley aimed the big Irish pony head-on at the willowy stallion. The beat of hooves kept pace with each quick-drawn breath. The smell of damp metal made his eyes water.

  In a trick that had served him well in his cavalier days, he waited until the animals were nearly nose to nose, then hauled sharply on the reins.

  The horse stopped while Wesley vaulted forward, wrapping his arms around the warrior, ripping his opponent out of the saddle and flinging them both to the wet ground.

  The warrior had a small man’s quickness, twisting lithely beneath him, bringing his foot up toward Wesley’s groin.

  Deflecting the strike with his own leg, Wesley grasped a flailing arm. Who is this? he wondered. Surely not the heavyset, broad-shouldered Logan Rafferty.

  They tumbled and rolled, breath rasping and hands grappling for discarded weapons. Nearby, the pitch fire had risen to a roaring blaze. Heat lapped at Wesley’s back and singed the ends of his hair. Irish shouts and running feet sounded behind him, coming closer.