The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  “But was resurrecting it her idea?” Wesley asked.

  “Aye. The notion came on her when the Sassenach burned our fishing boats. They’d already stolen most of our cattle, so there was no leather for making new curraghs. There was nothing for it, she decided, but to go to war.”

  “Not a common accomplishment for a young woman.”

  “My friend, there is nothing common about Caitlin MacBride.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t ever forget it.”

  “I doubt she’ll let me. But why is she the leader?”

  “You’ve seen her in action. Men follow her like lemmings over a cliff.”

  With a prickle of apprehension, Wesley realized that Tom Gandy was parting easily with his answers. Which could only mean they had no intention of letting him go. “Do you happen to know what she has in store for me?”

  Tom rocked back on his heels and let out a hoot of laughter. “Faith, if I told you that, you’d never believe me! Neither would Caitlin.” He jumped up and scurried away.

  Wesley lay back, staring at the clouds rushing over the moon. He was wet and sore, a madwoman’s prisoner, and yet for reasons he couldn’t fathom, a sense of peace invaded his soul.

  His gaze picked out little Tom Gandy, who was having a one-sided conversation in Gaelic with the blacksmith.

  The man must be a witch, thought Wesley, beginning the slow glide into slumber. Something niggled at him, a voice speaking secrets in his head, a plan of sorts....

  * * *

  “You care nothing for my feelings!” Magheen tossed back her silky hair. “If you did, Caitlin, you’d find some way to make Logan see reason.”

  “Blessed angels, I have tried,” said Caitlin. She was weary from the campaign. They had been back at Clonmuir only a day. Magheen had started haranguing her the moment she’d stepped through the gates. “I offered him a share of the new stores, but he refused.”

  “I’ve half a mind to tell him where the provisions came from,” Magheen threatened.

  “You wouldn’t! Magheen, please—”

  “Ah, Caitlin.” Magheen laid a hand on her arm. “’Tis my temper speaking for my mind. I’ve seen you feed half the district on English victuals. I’ll not interfere, I promise. Are you sure he wouldn’t settle for a nice barrel of salt beef?”

  Caitlin eyed her beauteous sister meaningfully. “Logan wishes a more lasting dowry, not one that could be consumed in a few meals.”

  “But what about me?” wailed Magheen, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall, including Hawkins, who lounged near the central hearth. He might have been a visiting lord, so relaxed and comfortable did he look—except for the sixty-pound cannonball soldered to a chain and shackled to his left foot.

  Caitlin turned a gaze of longing to the untouched meal on her trencher. “I’m trying my best, Magheen,” she said evenly. “But I’ve yet to see you try.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  “Do you love Logan Rafferty?”

  “St. Brendan’s spirit, you know I do.”

  “Then if that’s so,” said Caitlin, “why do you refuse him your bed?”

  “It’s a matter of pride, Caitlin. You know that. The price Logan demanded for me was humiliatingly grand. If you’d told me before the wedding, I never would have married him. I shouldn’t need a dowry at all. He ought to be grateful to have me alone.”

  “Your portion is paltry even if we abide by the old laws, which Logan has ceased to do.” Her point made, Caitlin picked up her knife. Before she could spear the piece of meat her stomach had been screaming for, Curran’s shrill whistle shrieked from the gate tower. With a sigh, she set down her knife and went to greet the newcomers.

  They were heartbreakingly familiar: a fisherman from Slyne Head and his rag-clad family. The English had burned the man’s fishing boat and driven the family from their home.

  His wife had a hollow-eyed look Caitlin recognized. The unspoken horrors she had seen were somehow more vivid than if she had described them in detail.

  “Took the lay priest, too,” the fisherman lamented. “Bagged him like a partridge and carted him off to God knows where.”

  Smiling through tears of pity, Caitlin welcomed the family and offered them food and shelter. Weariness plodded with her as she returned to her seat at the round table. Her meal would be cold, but she was past caring.

  Just as she seated herself, an argument erupted at the end of the hall. “It’s mine, I tell you, I seized it fair and square!” Conn tugged at the long English musket Rory held.

  Exasperated, Caitlin pushed away from the uneaten meal.

  “Only after I slew the peeler it belonged to,” Rory retorted. “Take your hands off my spoils.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” said Caitlin. From the corner of her eye she saw Hawkins sit forward in frank interest. Discomfited by her prisoner’s attention, she pried Rory’s fingers from the musket and set the gun aside.

  “I nearly got myself killed battling the devil,” said Rory. “The musket’s mine by rights.”

  “I clapped eyes on it first,” Conn said heatedly.

  “How could you, when it was aimed at my own head?”

  Caitlin looked from Rory’s fierce red-bearded face to Conn’s equally fierce dark one. Over the months since she’d organized the Fianna she had learned one unassailable truth of leadership. Be decisive. Never let them see you at a loss. Or in a mistake. Hawkins had been her blunder.

  Yet her mind was a blank. The problem with Magheen, the new refugees, the details of dividing up the spoils of the raid, her father’s blithe indifference, and especially Hawkins’s bemused scrutiny all seemed to swamp her like a storm-driven tide.

  “Well?” asked Rory, glaring at Conn.

  “Well?” asked Conn, glaring at Caitlin.

  “I...really, you’re two grown men. Sure it’s unbecoming to bicker and—”

  “The musket’s useless,” said a smooth quiet voice.

  Caitlin swung toward Hawkins. “Not that it’s any of your business, but just how would you be knowing that?”

  He shrugged and reached for his mug of poteen. “The firing pan’s missing, the bayonet’s broken off in the plug, and the barrel’s bent.”

  “’Tisn’t bent,” Rory grumbled.

  “Look closer, my friend. The first time a man attempts to fire it, it’ll blow up in his face.”

  Scowling, Rory took the musket from Caitlin and sighted down the barrel. “Damn.” He rubbed his shoulder. “The English devil did wallop me right smart with it.”

  Caitlin found herself suppressing a grin. Rory Breslin was one of the few men whose shoulder could do damage to iron. With a chagrined expression, he passed the gun to Conn. “It’s yours if you want it. I’ll stick with my hand ax. No danger of that ever blowing up in my face.”

  “No, thanks.” Conn set aside the musket.

  “Give it to Liam the smith,” said Hawkins. “Maybe he can use the parts for scrap.”

  Tom Gandy giggled drunkenly and swept his arm toward Hawkins. “Sure isn’t he full of brains.”

  “Hasn’t he the knob of the world on his head!” Rory added.

  “The high learning be at him, praise be to St. Patrick and St. Dymphna!” Conn thumped Hawkins none too gently on the back.

  With undenied pleasure, Caitlin watched a flush sweep over the Englishman’s face. He had outthought two warriors, and they would be long in forgetting it.

  “Caitlin!” Darrin Mudge, a smallholder from the district, called across the hall. “This English wine is spoiled. Won’t even make a decent vinegar, while the cruiskeen you gave Duffy is smooth as silk.”

  She folded her lips with displeasure. Mudge was the last remaining neighbor to possess sheep and cattle, which he prized with the possessiveness of the sidhe with a dead soul.

  “’Tain’t fair, I say! What good be raiding if we get no decent spirits?” Mudge persisted.

  Heaving a sigh, Caitlin realiz
ed she’d not have a chance to eat her meal tonight. Each time she finished settling one dispute, another came chasing at its heels.

  God in heaven, she thought. Will not one person let me savor my victory?

  To her utter astonishment, Hawkins raised his mug in a blatant salute. He said nothing, only looked at her with knowing eyes, offering her a momentary haven from the myriad demands that claimed her. He of all those present asked for nothing. Not that he had any right, but still, for the instant that their gazes were locked, she felt an odd sense of peace.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that caused her heart to thump loudly in her ears.

  No. She couldn’t soften just because he had a pretty face and a way of reading her emotions. He was her prisoner, her enemy. Soon she would have to decide what to do with him.

  She returned to the table and sat down. Just then her father stood, dashing her last hopes of eating her supper. How magnificent he looked, with his beautiful white beard plaited, and the tumbled stones on his tunic gleaming in the rushlight. His face was smooth and ageless, for the years did not trouble Seamus MacBride. When Siobhan had been alive, she’d done his worrying for him. After that, Caitlin had.

  He banged his mug on the table.

  Now what? Caitlin wondered.

  “MacBride!” someone shouted, and others joined the salute. “MacBride, Clonmuir and Ireland!”

  Just as if, Caitlin thought with a twinge of annoyance, Seamus himself had led them to victory.

  Acknowledging the salute with a regal nod of his head, Seamus cleared his throat. “My friends, my family. Ach, musha, but you do me honor. Soon, the Lord and his angels be willing, I will attempt to return that honor.”

  Murmurs rippled through the hall. Feeling conspicuous, Caitlin moved to a nearby bench. Her father had that stubborn light in his clear eyes, the look that told her he had set himself on a path from which he would not swerve.

  “Ill tidings have come from Slyne Head,” said Seamus. “And it’s not the first we’ve heard. A great scourge is sweeping over Eireann and taking our most precious treasure. Our men of God.”

  Heads bobbed in grim acknowledgment.

  “Our priests are disappearing.” Despair tore at Seamus’s voice. “God alone knows what is happening to them. Some run before the sword of the English scourge, hiding out in bogs and secret dales. Others abandon their raiments for common disguises. But those are the fortunate ones. Too many are caught, informed upon by cursed bounty hunters. I know not if they are transported to England and tortured, set adrift to drown at sea, or exiled to Spain.”

  “The Sassenach tortures them,” Rory stated.

  “And eats their parts for breakfast,” Brian added with a shudder.

  “A notion is on me.” Seamus clasped his hands to his chest. “They are not all dead. God would not be so cruel. I believe these priests who have been seized are collected at some spot and held like convicts.”

  Fists shook in outrage. Caitlin felt her attention drawn to Hawkins. He listened avidly, curiosity burning in his eyes.

  “By the silver hair of my honor,” Seamus declared, “I vow I shall find these misplaced men of God.”

  Caitlin slumped on the bench while all around her, people exclaimed in admiration. She alone understood the ramifications of Seamus’s decision. Men obeyed her because she was the daughter of the MacBride. Without his presence, her authority would disintegrate. Her men would erode into warring factions, relax their vigilance, and become easy prey for the English.

  She was as sympathetic as the next person to the plight of the Irish priests, but sacrificing all she had accomplished was too great a price to pay.

  “And so,” Seamus continued, “in order to proceed on my holy quest, I must abdicate as the MacBride.”

  Just as incredulous looks passed among the listeners, the main door burst open. His color high from a fast ride, Logan Rafferty strode into the hall. Magheen flashed him a venomous look, but he didn’t notice. His gaze settled on Hawkins. “I thought you’d gone on your way, Englishman.”

  Hawkins grinned. He wasn’t used to the powerful effects of poteen, and had drunk more than his fill. “How could I stay away?” he asked blithely, drawing his knee up to his chest.

  At the sight of the chains, Logan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the devil’s this?”

  Caitlin held her breath. With a word, Hawkins could betray the Fianna to Logan. Then the prideful lord would forbid her activities. Please, God, don’t let him tell, she prayed silently. Hawkins spread his hands.

  “Clonmuir hospitality. Hard to resist, eh? But enough about me. You’ve interrupted an abdication.”

  “A what?” Logan turned to Seamus.

  “Aye, it’s true. I’m off to find the priests of Ireland.”

  “But you have no successor,” Conn called out. “No son, nor even a nephew to take your place.”

  “And a grandson seems highly unlikely.” Logan pointedly eyed his wife across the room.

  “So I must name a successor.”

  The crowd inhaled a collective breath; then the speculation began. Rory Breslin squared his shoulders. He was a giant of a man and a master of pitched battle. But Rory was made to carry out orders, not conceive battle plans.

  Tom Gandy planted his feet and set his hands on his hips. Not a soul at Clonmuir would dispute his wily intelligence, his blade-sharp wit tempered by a humanity that endeared him to all. But he was, despite his gifts, afflicted by dwarfism and suspected of dabbling in the black arts. Caitlin didn’t believe it for a moment, but some did. Every drought, every famine, every contagion would be blamed on him.

  Her gaze, in concert with everyone else’s, finally and reluctantly settled on Logan Rafferty. Full of a swaggering confidence that dug at her pride, he stood with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back.

  Lofty of rank and a MacBride by marriage, young and strapping, and charming when he wished to be, he would carry out the duties of the chieftain with alacrity.

  But he didn’t know about the Fianna. Fear trembled inside Caitlin, for she knew all would be lost. Logan was too cautious to lead raids on the English.

  A protest leapt to her lips, but died unspoken. No woman had ever been in on the decision before. But she was Caitlin. She was different. “Daida, please—” Then she stopped herself. Please what? There was nothing she could do, no words she could speak, that would sway the men.

  “If I choose you,” said Seamus to Logan, “will you rule by the old law?”

  Logan’s spurs clinked as he approached the high table. “Has it not always been so at Clonmuir?”

  Sighs of relief gusted from the listeners. But Caitlin studied him closely. A guarded look shadowed his eyes, and suddenly she knew with sick certainty that he was lying. Once chieftain, he would rule in English fashion, collecting tithes, parceling out tenantry, claiming ownership of lands that had belonged to no one but the immortals since time began. It was all she could do to keep from leaping up and blurting out her fears.

  Alonso, she thought. I need you now. I need a man who believes in me. A man whose voice will speak my heart for me.

  “What about Caitlin?”

  The hall reverberated with the strong English voice of John Wesley Hawkins. With gaping mouths and astonished eyes, all turned to face him.

  A strange heat rose to stain Caitlin’s throat and cheeks bright red.

  Logan spun around, his black eyes flashing. “Dare you speak, Englishman?”

  Hawkins shrugged. “Someone had to, for she won’t speak for herself.”

  “This is none of your concern,” snapped Logan. Addressing Rory, he said, “Kill the fellow and be done with him. Faith, he’s just another mouth to feed.”

  But Hawkins’s words took root in the fertile minds of the men who had ridden with her to triumph. She could see the idea began to blossom in her father’s eyes and in Tom’s knowing smile.

  “Look, she runs this household and leads—is served by brave men.
” Hawkins stood, hefting the iron ball in one hand. “What are the qualities of a chieftain?”

  “He must put the needs of the clan before his own,” said Seamus.

  Hawkins gestured pointedly at her uneaten meal. “While you were stuffing your gullets, she was settling disputes.”

  “He must be able of mind and body,” said Rory Breslin.

  The Englishman smiled. “Show me a weakness in that woman, and I’ll eat my ball and chain.”

  “He rules by sacred trust,” said Tom Gandy.

  “Here I stand in bondage,” said Hawkins, “and yet I trust her.”

  “Damned meddling Englishman,” Logan spat. “You only want a woman as chief so you can wheedle your way out of those chains. Turn him over to me, I say.”

  Hawkins ignored him, facing Seamus instead. “You had to ask Rafferty if he would rule according to tradition. Would you even have to ask this of Caitlin?”

  “No, of course not, she—”

  “Need I say more?” Hawkins took a sip from his mug.

  “It could work, by God,” said Seamus. “Aye, she’s her mother’s daughter and has been the strength of this sept these six years. I’m not too proud to admit it.”

  People began to murmur, heads to nod. Frozen on the bench, Caitlin felt a sick hope building in her, rising, reaching. She could be the MacBride. She deserved to be. She had given her heart and soul to Clonmuir. No one cared as much as she. No one knew these people as she did. She fought for them, wept when they grieved and rejoiced when good fortune came to them.

  Ah, sweet Jesus, I want this, she thought. More than anything, I want to be the MacBride.

  Hawkins sat with an indulgent smile on his face, the smile of a man capable of manipulating a crowd. The smile of a man with a secret motive. She’d worry about that later.

  “Can you do it, Caitlin?” Seamus seemed to be calling to her across a great distance. “Can you take up the white wand of the MacBride?”

  She rose to her feet. Now was no time for feminine modesty. Her gaze locked with Logan’s, and they waged a silent battle.

  I’ve bowed to your wishes all my life, she told him. A hundred times, I’ve let you best me when I could have won. This time I’ll not sacrifice my people for your pride. It’s time I showed you my true abilities, time I had what is mine by right.