The Maiden of Ireland

She had grown accustomed to deferring to him. But she would never grow accustomed to the bitter taste of it.

He eyed Magheen’s slowly retreating figure. “A handful, that one.” His gaze drifted to her derriere. “Two hands full.”

Caitlin faced him squarely across the table. “You’ve come about my sister?”

“Ah, it’s all business you are. You’re twenty-two years old, Caitlin MacBride. You’ll wither on the tree like an unplucked rowanberry.”

His sympathy was as insubstantial as the mist over the mountains. Logan cared not a dram for her unmarried state.

Unmoved, she said, “I know I owe you Magheen’s dowry and that I’m in arrears.” She slid a glance at her father, who sat poring over his book and looking lost, as he had since the castle chaplain, Father Tully, had mysteriously disappeared just after Magheen’s wedding two weeks earlier.

Help me, Daida. She tried to convey the silent message to him, but he continued his quiet study.

“Can payment wait until the calving?”

“I’ve been waiting. And Magheen won’t give herself to me on credit.” Mirth rose from the men at the hearth. “My people have gone without Clonmuir milk and meat since Easter.” Looking for accord, he glared at the men. “And I’ve gone without my husbandly privileges.”

Caitlin drew a deep breath. Drastic troubles called for drastic measures. “I’ve the best stable of ponies in Connemara,” she said. “Will you accept a mare and a stallion?”

“The Clonmuir ponies do tempt me. But I’ll not be taking them. They’re only more mouths to feed.” Logan leaned toward her. His black beard brushed the table. “And what are you doing with so much fine horseflesh, eh?” he asked softly.

She prayed he would not guess her secret. “The stable has been the pride of the MacBrides since the time before time. I’ll not be turning them out because of a few lean years.”

His thick eyebrows clashed. “You’re putting the welfare of Clonmuir horses before that of your own dear sister.”

She pressed her lips together, thinking of Magheen, of her other people, women and babies—sweet Saint Brigid, so many babies!—who depended on her. “Give me a week. I’ll send you a bullock as a token of my good intent.”

“What of my good intent?” Exuding the proprietary air he had been born with, Logan put out a hand and caressed her cheek. “I’ve offered a solution if you would but agree.”

“Have a spark of sense. You’re married to my sister.”

His coal-black eyes kindled with annoyance. “By Christ’s holy rood, I have no marriage with Magheen.”

She glared at him through the light fog of peat smoke. “You could have, if you’d reduce your demands.”

“Never,” he stated. “A lord can ask no less.”

“And I can do no better until the calving.” She gathered up her papers. “One healthy bullock. Conn will bring it to you.”

His fist crashed down on the table, hammering for attention. “It’s not a bullock I want, but a wife!”

“You’ll have her, I promise. But she’s nearly as unreasonable as you.”

The wail of a baby laid siege to any reply Logan might have made. The quality of the cry was unmistakable. Only hunger could give that earsplitting edge to a child’s cry.

Yet another family of starvelings had reached Clonmuir. Forgetting Logan, Caitlin hurried to welcome them.

Magheen was already there, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm and motioning urgently with the other for someone to fetch milk. Worrying the brim of his caubeen with his fingers, a man approached Caitlin. “You are lady of the keep?”

No one ever mistook her for an underling. Wondering why, she said, “Yes,” and smiled reassuringly. “Welcome to Clonmuir.”

“Talk is, your hearth is open to such as us.”

Caitlin nodded. Behind her, she heard the sounds of plates and utensils. The scenario had been repeated so many times that the servants needed no instructions. “Warm yourselves by the fire,” she invited.

As the family trudged past, she looked into their nearly senseless eyes. In the hollowed depths she saw suffering beyond imagining, sorrow beyond bearing, horrors beyond believing.

And she knew, with a painful twist of her heart, that these wretches were the lucky ones.

The unlucky ones lay in ditches, prey for wolves or—aye, she’d heard it said—starving Irish.

Damn the English. The curse trembled silently through her. “Still taking in strays, are you?”

She turned to Logan. “And what would you have me do?”

“I’d have you meet my price, Caitlin MacBride, or the marriage is off for good.” With that he strode out into the yard, whistled for his horse, and rode toward his home of Brocach, twenty miles to the north.

Caitlin rubbed her temples to soothe away a dull throb of pain. Unsuccessful, she went to see to the needs of her guests.

Ten minutes later a youthful voice called from the yard. “My lady!” Hoofbeats thudded on the soddy ground.

“Curran,” she said, picking up the hem of her kirtle.

She rushed down the long length of the hall, past the women at their spinning, past her father, past a group of children playing at hoodman blind. Not one of them, she knew, felt the pounding sense of trepidation that hammered in her chest.

She felt it for them as she always had. They never feared news from Galway, even in these dangerous times. In every sense save the formal one she was the MacBride, chieftain of the sept, and she wore their fears like a postulant wears a hair shirt.

A fast ride and a sharp wind had whipped up color in Curran Healy’s already swarthy face. He swung down from his tall, muscular pony and bowed slightly to Caitlin.

“What news, Curran?” she asked.

“I’ve been to the docks,” Curran said in a strained tone. He was but fourteen and lived in dread of his voice breaking.

“Devil admire you, Curran Healy, I told you never to stray to the docks of Galway. Why, if a healthy lad like you fell into the hands of the English, they’d geld you like a spring foal.”

He shuddered. “I swear not a soul marked my passing. I saw merchants—”

“Spanish ones?” she asked on a rush of air. Anticipation thrummed through her so sharply that it hurt. Months, it had been, since she had heard from him...

“English.” He rummaged in his satchel. “My lady, and the great God forgive the sin upon my head, but I stole this.”

She snatched the sealed parchment from his hand. “This is a bonded letter.” She whacked the youth on the chest with the packet. “Great is the luck that is on you, Curran Healy, for I should have you flogged for endangering yourself.”

He pulled at the pale sprouts of hair growing on his chin. “Ah, my lady, sure there’s never been a flogging at Clonmuir.”

Defeated by his logic and her own curiosity, Caitlin opened the letter. “It’s from Captain Titus Hammersmith to...” She bit her lip, then spoke the hated name. “To Oliver Cromwell.”

“What’s it say, my lady? I don’t read English.”

She scanned the letter. On feet of ice, apprehension tiptoed up her spine. I shall extend every courtesy to your envoy who is coming to solve this great matter...The covenant of this mean tribe of Irish is with Death and Hell! By the grace of God and with the help of this excellent secret weapon, the Fianna shall be as dust beneath the bootheel of righteousness...

“What’s an envoy?” asked Curran.

Fear tugged at her stomach. She forced a smile. “It’s something like a toad.”

“Can’t be. Legend is, that if you bring a snake or toad to Ireland by ship, the creature will flop over and die.”

“No doubt Cromwell’s toad will do just that.”

“And if he—it—doesn’t?”

She shook back her heavy mane of hair. There had not been time to plait it this morning. There was never time to behave like a lady. “Then the Fianna will have to ride again.”

“What of this talk of a secret weapon?”

She laughed harshly. “And who—or what—on this blessed earth could possibly defeat the Fianna? We’ll see that happen when the snakes return to Ireland!”

Two

“You’re one lucky man,” said a cultured, nasal voice. Very proper. Oxford or Cambridge. The clerics at Douai would be surprised to know St. Peter was an Englishman.

Wesley tried to lift his eyelids. Tried again. Failed. Exasperated, he used his fingers to pry them open. Blue sky and billowy clouds. Dull white wings stretched against the wind. Had he somehow escaped Satan’s horseman, after all?

“What’s that?” His voice rasped from a throat scoured raw by the hangman’s noose.

“I said,” came St. Peter’s voice, “you’re a lucky man.”

Wesley frowned. Why was St. Peter talking like a Gray’s Inn barrister? A cool shadow passed over him. He blinked, and the shape came into focus. A high-collared cloak, not an angel’s robes. A face he recognized, and it wasn’t the face of St. Peter.

“God’s blood!” he said. “John Thurloe! Are you dead, too?”

“I wasn’t the last time I checked.”

Wesley propped his elbows against hard wood and struggled to rise. Pain? No, pain couldn’t follow him into the light, where the sky shone blue and distant and his heart beat vibrantly in his chest. “By God, I used to hate you, sir, but now you’re as welcome as the springtime.”

Wesley heard a creaking sound, the groan of thick rope straining against old wood. Canvas luffing in the wind.

“Jesus Christ, I’m on a ship!” said Wesley.

Thurloe bent his legs to absorb a swell that rolled the narrow deck. “You must keep your popish confessor busy, priest, with all the swearing you do.”

The sin was minor compared to others Wesley had committed. “Last I remember, I was swinging from Tyburn Tree.” He touched his stomach and chest through the shirt he wore. The executioner’s sword hadn’t so much as split a hair.

Thurloe’s features pinched into a frown. “And your various parts would be spiked on Tower Gate and London Bridge if not for the tender mercies of myself and our Lord Protector.”

The cobwebs began lifting from Wesley’s mind. He remembered himself moving, as if he were galloping toward an eternity of regrets, of half-finished business. The terrible journey had taken him past the fair-haired child he had left behind, past words he should have said, past a crown he had tried to defend.

He asked, “Cromwell arranged a pardon?”

“A stay of execution.”

A memory flashed through Wesley’s mind: the hooded giant, the weeping masses, the jolt of the cart. His feet kicking at empty air, the wheel of green leaves and blue sky overhead, the burn of the rope around his neck.

After that, a muddle of pain. His body dragged to the block, the black hood looming into view, a blade glittering against the clear sky, steel slicing toward his bare flesh.

Then a shout: Hold thy stroke!

An ugly blur followed: horses’ sweaty hides, soldiers’ buff livery, clenched fists and muttered curses. Questions, protests, speculation spoken over his limp body. A dark robed man arguing with the sheriff at Tyburn.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked Thurloe. “You stopped the execution.”

“I did.”

“I can’t say I’m fond of your timing. You might have come earlier.” Wesley cocked an eyebrow at Thurloe. The wind plucked at his wispy brown hair arranged in a tonsure around the balding top of the man’s head. “Just a stay?”

“That will depend on you, priest. Or should I say Hawkins?”

Damn. “Who’s Hawkins?” he asked.

“Don’t be lame, sir. Several of the ladies present called you Wesley. Lucky for you, I quickly deduced the truth.” Thurloe spun in a shimmer of dark velvet and brass buttons. He set a hat on his head. Wesley recognized the tipped brim fastened with a palm-sized brooch. “Come with me.”

Wesley dragged himself up on wobbly legs. The ship strained at her cables. His vision swam, then resolved into a view of a narrow deck and an aftercastle rising beyond a web of rigging.

To his left the sea swelled out endlessly. To his right, a small town huddled a stone’s throw away.

“Milford Haven,” said Thurloe.

“Milford Haven! My God, that’s two hundred miles from London,” said Wesley. Lost miles, during which he had imagined being borne to hell in the devil’s chariot.

“You see, we’ve not even left port.”

“Why not?”

“Because not all of us are going with you, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Going where?”

Thurloe made no response, but led the way down a hatch and through a companionway that smelled of wet timber and moldering rope. Two men descended on Wesley with soap and a razor. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself thrust before the Lord Protector of England. The sight of Oliver Cromwell freshened Wesley’s fears that he had gone to hell, after all.

Framed from behind by a bank of diamond shaped stern windows, Cromwell stood at a burl writing desk. Reddish brown hair, cropped to his shoulders, framed a bold-featured face ornamented by a curling mustache and pointed beard. The Lord Protector’s eyes had the gleam of ice-coated rock.

“Bit of an improvement.” His gaze sharpened on Wesley. “Ah, Mr. Hawkins. I’ve got you at last, after all these years.”

In the wells of the desk sat an array of crystal ink bottles with silver stoppers. The gilt-edged blotter and the straight-backed chair bore an imprint of the lions of England. The trappings of royalty.

Wesley planted his feet on the red Turkey carpet of the stateroom. “What ship is this?”

Cromwell’s lips tightened as if he found the question impertinent. He drew himself up proudly. The pose looked faintly ridiculous on the Lord Protector. His plain cloth suit appeared to be the work of a country tailor. “It used to be called Royal Charles but it’s been rechristened Victory.”

“And where are we going?”

“You are sailing west as soon as I’ve given you your instructions.”

“You’re sending me into exile?”

Beneath the legendary ruby nose, a controlled smile tugged at Cromwell’s mouth. “Exile? Too easy for the likes of you.”

“You obviously want something from me, else you’d not have spared my life,” Wesley reminded him. The truth hit him suddenly, a swift blow to his empty belly. He was alive! Laura. Laura, darling. The thought of her clasped him in an embrace of both joy and dread.

“You royalists are always so astute,” said Cromwell, his voice sharp as an untuned viol.

Wesley ignored the taunt. He had been astute enough to elude Cromwell for six years.

“Sit down, Mr. Hawkins.”

As the Lord Protector lowered himself to the richly carved chair, Wesley took a three-legged stool opposite him. Thurloe poured brandy into small glasses.

“The Irish problem.” Cromwell pressed his palm to the map before him. The chart depicted the island, with stars drawn at the English-held ports and hen-track markings tracing the route of Cromwell’s dread Roundhead army.

Ireland? Wesley frowned. Perhaps the pressures of his office were weighting Cromwell’s reason.

“I know nothing of Ireland,” said Wesley. Almost true. A hazy memory came to him, filtered by the years. His parents’ stern faces and cold eyes as they informed him that England was not safe for Catholics. His banishment to Louvain on the Continent, where Irish friars had put him to work printing outlawed books in Gaelic. The kindness of the brothers had almost filled the void in his heart. And the strange, lyrical language of the Gaels had lingered like a never-to-be-forgotten song in his mind.

“You stand to learn more than any civilized man ought to know.” Cromwell jabbed a thick finger at the map. “Dublin, Ulster, all the major ports belong to us. The Pale is ours. We gave the rebels a choice of hell or Connaught, and most of them made the mistake of choosing Connaught. And that’s where the problem lies.”

The west of Ireland. Wool, peat, herring...what else? He could not think of a commodity that would induce Cromwell to risk his men. But that was the Lord Protector: all-powerful, enigmatic, consumed by ambition, and unwilling to explain his motives.

“Galway,” said Wesley, deciphering the upside-down word near Cromwell’s finger.

“Aye, and the entire coast of Connemara. I’ve garrisoned troops at Galway. The Irish were driven out of the city long ago. But we’ve had resistance.”

The Lord Protector looked as if he could not comprehend this defiance. Why, Wesley thought ironically, wouldn’t the Irish wish to give up their age-old way of life, their tradition of self-rule, and their Catholic religion in order to embrace a revenue-hungry Protestant conquest?

Wesley realized he knew more about the Irish than he had thought. He took a drink. The brandy dropped like hot lead in his empty stomach.

“The heart of the resistance,” said Thurloe, “is a band of warriors called the Fianna. Do you know the legend?”

“No.” Wesley suspected it had to do with dark magic, fey folk, and shadowy deeds.

“It’s a medieval order of warriors, bound by blasphemous pledges and initiated in pagan rites. They fight like devils. Our captains swear the villains hold their horses under a spell, so fierce are the beasts.”

One corner of Wesley’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “I think your captains have been in the bogs too long.”

“They do God’s work,” Cromwell retorted.

“The Fianna use antique weapons,” Thurloe continued. “Broadswords, slings, cudgels, crossbows—and violate every rule of war. They strike like a sudden storm in the dark: swift, unexpected, devastating to men who pursue victory with honor.”

“And where do these warriors come from?” asked Wesley.

“Some are Connemara men. We know this because of the unique horses they ride. The Irish call them ponies, but the beasts are as large and thick as cavalry horses. Other warriors might have been recruited from the exiles of Connaught to the north.”

“And your army can’t contain them?”

“My army has righteousness on its side,” Cromwell insisted. “But they’re not trained in dirty, sneaking, bog-trotting tactics.”

And you think I am, Wesley silently observed. He took another sip of brandy. Resurrecting an ancient order was, he decided, an act of political genius, a clever way to remind the despairing Irish that they were the sons of warriors.

“They have a weakness,” Thurloe said.

Cromwell picked up a quill pen and brushed it over the map. “They have a blind, pagan devotion to their leader.”

Thurloe nodded. “The man has already achieved the status of legend. Our soldiers hear ballads sung about him. His Fianna will follow him to the very gates of hell and beyond.”

“Who is he?” asked Wesley.

“No one knows.” Thurloe’s sharp, Puritan features drew taut with chagrin. As master of protectoral intelligence, he prided himself on knowing the business of every last mother’s son in the Commonwealth. He resented the elusiveness of the Fianna. “We suspected the hand of popish priests in this, but we’ve culled every cleric from the area, and still the rebels ride.”

Cold distaste turned the brandy bitter in Wesley’s mouth. England was not the only dangerous place for the Catholic clergy.

“I want the devil taken.” Cromwell’s ruddy fist crashed down on the leather blotter. Crystal ink bottles clinked in their wells. “I want his head on a pike on London Bridge so all England can look upon an Irish thief and murderer.”

Wesley winced at the contempt in Cromwell’s voice. “He’s only a man fighting for his life and his people.”

“Bah! Honest Englishmen lived for years among the Irish, who enjoyed equal justice from the law. The rebels broke that union, just when Ireland was in a state of perfect peace.”

“Or perfect suppression,” said Wesley.

“I did not bring you here to debate questions of justice. I can drastically shorten your stay of execution.”

“Sorry.”

“Once this chieftain is taken,” Thurloe continued, “the Fianna will disintegrate.” A tight smile played about his mouth. “The Irish are sheep who lose their way without their shepherd.”

“Then from Galway we’ll take all the coastal districts of Connemara,” Cromwell stated with an air of finality. “We’ll put a noose around the rebels in Connaught.”

Wesley no longer wondered why Cromwell had cut him down from Tyburn Tree. He knew.

“Mr. Hawkins,” said Cromwell, “do you value your life over that of a murdering outlaw?”

I’m a Catholic, not a madman, thought Wesley. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

“I thought so,” said Cromwell. “You’re to find the chief of the Fianna and bring his head to me before the year is out.”

The ship’s timbers creaked into the silence. The smell of brine and mildew pervaded the air.

“Why me?” asked Wesley. “I’m a king’s man, and one of the few left in England who’s not afraid to say so.”

“Where’s Charles Stuart now, eh?” Cromwell sneered. “Helping the man who helped him escape Worcester?” He planted his elbows on the table. “He’s wenching on the Continent, Mr. Hawkins, and doesn’t give a damn about you.”

Wesley wouldn’t let himself rise to the taunt, wouldn’t let himself think of the night spent in an oak tree with a frightened young prince. “What makes you think I’m your man?”

“I’ve learned much about you. Your parents sent you overseas for rearing among papists. You returned to England to become a thief taker, growing rich on bounties and blood money.”

Tightening his muscles, Wesley fought to govern his emotions. Few knew of his parents or of the deeds he had done, tracking thieves, hauling them kicking and screaming to justice.

“Then you threw in your lot with the royal tyrant,” Cromwell went on. “We lost track of you. But we knew you were in England, spreading sedition and popish idolatry.”

“I seem to have been a busy man,” Wesley said wryly.

“It’s your reputation for tracking that put the idea on us,” said Thurloe. “Men swore you were capable of finding the path of a snake over stone, or a bird’s flight through a cloudy sky.”

“I think that’s overstating my talents a little.”

“In your time, you were the most successful thief taker in England.”

“There are others who have given their loyalty to you.”

“True, but you’re fluent in Gaelic. From your training in Louvain.”

Wesley made no reply. This was no bluff, then. Thurloe was conscientious indeed. He had done his research.

“Ah, and one final thing.” Cromwell smiled, the drawn-back grin of a viper about to strike. “Your success with women. Even as a postulant you couldn’t resist.”

Wesley went cold inside. He wondered how much the Lord Protector actually knew of his lapse.

He found out when Thurloe presented him with a letter. “From William Pym,” the Secretary of State announced in a voice hot with venom. “You seduced his daughter, Annabel, and she died three years ago birthing your bastard.”

Wesley closed his eyes as shame scoured his soul. Here was his penance. He forced his eyes open. “I comported myself poorly. How will that help me corner an Irish outlaw?”

Thurloe produced another letter. A whimsical script danced across the page. “There is a reference to the Fianna in this, from a woman of Connemara to a Spanish gentleman in London.”

“You intercepted it?” Wesley asked.

He nodded. “The woman’s name is Caitlin MacBride. She’s mistress of a coastal stronghold called Clonmuir.”

“An excellent place to start your conquest,” Thurloe put in. “The attacks of the Fianna began not long after the English burned the fishing vessels of Clonmuir.”

“If you can sweet-talk your way into her bed as easily as you did into the beds of English ladies,” said Cromwell, “you’ll be able to coax secrets from the Irish whore.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, my lord?” asked Wesley.

The Lord Protector lifted his glass. “An unenviable task. Irishwomen are Amazons—dirty and ugly—and this Caitlin MacBride will likely be worse. She’s twenty-two and unmarried despite her holdings. But you’ll put up with her barbaric ways. Knowing your proclivities, you’ll probably find her interesting.”