Dark of the Moon (48 page)

"I hope your soul screams in Purgatory for eternity," she said to the man at her feet, then spat on him before climbing out the window into the freezing night.

Hell itself could not be much more miserable than Kilmainham Gaol, Connor thought as he leaned his head back against the slimy stone wall and contemplated the progress of a roach as it made its way across the mildewed granite of the ceiling.

The harsh January winds howled outside and whistled along the dark, dank rabbit warren of passageways that led to the cells. Kilmainham was as bone-chillingly cold as Hell was reputed to be hot. Soon he would be able to compare the two at first hand. His trial had concluded a se'ennight ago. He was to be hanged at dawn tomorrow, publicly, on a gallows even now being constructed at the edge of Phoenix Park. Enormous crowds were expected to attend. Any hanging was the occasion for a public holiday, but the execution of the notorious Dark Horseman promised to be something special.

He would be taken to the site chained in the back of an open cart so that all might witness his downfall. The guards, who were reasonably affable on account of his notoriety, informed him that people were already setting up camp on the best spots along the route and close to the gallows in order to have the choicest views of the next day's entertainment. Disembowelment, a high treat for the crowd, which involved cutting out the hanged man's entrails and burning them, would follow the hanging. To Connor, that was a mere bagatelle. They could do what they wished with his body once he was dead.

Shivering, he pulled what remained of his silver brocade coat closer around his neck. He had not been warm in the near six weeks since he'd been taken. The air in his small cell was so cold that every time he breathed, a tiny cloud of vapor formed in front of his face. Were he not to be hanged, he'd doubtless die of pneumonia before long. Many like him did, if Liffey fever did not claim them.

They'd taken him from Newgate across England in irons in a prison cart, then put him in a cage like an animal for the ferry ride across the channel to Dublin. Within a fortnight after his arrest he'd been locked up in Kilmainham Gaol, and he had not left the grounds since. He would not until he was taken forth to be hanged.

He was hungry. Sweet Jesus, was he hungry! He'd had no more than moldy bread and scummy water during the entire time he'd been imprisoned. Oh, no, there had been a bit of briny cod's head included with the meal on Christmas Day. No one could say the bloody British were not hospitable to their prisoners.

But hunger, like disembowelment, was something that he would soon not have to worry about.

He should be thinking of the state of his soul, worrying about making his peace with God.

He should not be envisioning a juicy mutton stew, or wishing for a pint of ale or a roaring fire to warm himself at. Though such physical needs did keep him from thinking of other, less palatable things.

He did not want to die, and there was the plain truth of it. He was not yet thirty years old; he had a lot of living yet to do. He did not want to die, and he especially did not want to die in the way they had planned for him. To be dropped through a trapdoor with a rope tight around his neck and his hands tied behind him was a horror he would rather not contemplate. He would face it when he must, with courage, he hoped. Until then, he would not allow himself to dwell on his fate.

The trial had been held in the prison itself; it had been short and to the point, his guilt a foregone conclusion. The bloody Sassenach magistrate had practically rubbed his hands with glee as he had passed sentence on the Dark

Horseman. His execution would be a sign to the Irish that their English masters were firmly in place and in control.

He had been allowed no visitors since his arrest. Not that it mattered. The only people he cared to see were the ones who would face mortal danger if they came. His brothers had ridden with him and faced the same fate he did if taken. His prayer was that they would have the common sense to lie low until all was over. And Caitlyn . . . Caitlyn. It was torture imagining what was happening to her. He prayed that she had not fallen again into Sir Edward's hands. His only regret was that he had not managed to kill him before he had been taken. It galled him to think of quitting the earth while Sir Edward still breathed. Had he it all to do over again, he would have broken the man's neck while he had the chance. But, of course, he could do nothing over again. No one ever could.

One of the guards, taking pity on him because he was to die on the morrow, had provided him with quills, ink, and parchment. Connor shivered, tugged at his coat again, and bent himself once more to the task of writing farewell messages to those he loved. If all fell out as it was supposed to, he would not see them again on this earth.

But there must be something more we can do!" Caitlyn looked beseechingly up at Father Patrick. Though it was still daylight outside, the tunnels beneath Donoughmore were as black as the blackest night. Only a single lantern illuminated the spot where the six of them huddled.

Beyond that small circle of light, all was echoing darkness.

"The seeds are planted and should, God willing, bear fruit. All that is left is to wait for the dawn and pray."

' 'We could attempt a gaol break." Like the rest of them who had spent most of the daylight hours of the past month in the dark tunnels, Cormac was pale. He was thinner too, as were Liam and Rory and Caitlyn herself. Mickeen was down to a bone. The only one who was much the same as he had always been was Father Patrick, who had been working tirelessly on Connor's behalf since he had heard the news of his arrest.

"Kilmainham is impregnable," Father Patrick answered with the weary air of one who had said as much before. " 'Tis no sense in throwing your lives away on such foolishness. Sure, and Connor would not thank the lot of you for getting yourselves killed as well as him, and well you know it."

"But, Father, do you think 'twill work?" Liam chewed on a fingernail as he looked across at the priest. They were sitting on saddles and other makeshift seats, the remains of a meal of bread and cheese that Father Patrick had brought littering the makeshift table on which guttered the lantern.

"To tell you true, Liam, I do not know. I can only pray to God. But to my way of thinking,

'tis the only chance your brother has."

"We cannot and will not let him hang!" Rory jumped to his feet and paced about in agitation.

"Believe me, there are many who feel as you do, and in that we must place our hope. Cone, are you ready?"

The rest of them got to their feet. The time had come for them to travel to Dublin. It would be a risky journey, as dragoons still combed the countiyside with an eye out for the Dark Horseman's band. Only by remaining safely beneath the surface of the earth had they avoided capture so far. But they would ride singly and in pairs so as to attract less attention, meeting at a prearranged spot in the part of Dublin's slums known as Botany Bay. The arrangements for the morrow were all made. Now came the most difficult part: the waiting.

"Father, have you any means to give Conn word of what we would attempt? He must be . .

." Liam's voice trailed off, and he finished the sentence with an expressive gesture. Caitlyn imagined how tortured must be Connor's thoughts on this, possibly the last evening of his life, and felt sick. She longed to go to him, to comfort him. It might be the last time she would see him in life.

"Be at ease, my children. I have made such plans. Connor has a part to play on the morrow as well." Father Patrick's eyes ran over the five faces that regarded him so anxiously. His tired face was somber. "Even the bloody English would not deny a condemned man access to a priest on the night before he is to hang."

"You'll see him, Father?"

"Will they let you, do you think?"

"Tell his lordship—tell him—ah, tell him what you will." Mickeen, unable to put into words his message of loyalty and affection, scowled and spat.

"They'll let me see him, have no fear. I will do what I can to ease his way unto death—or whatever." A long- absent twinkle appeared in Father Patrick's eyes. "Though it took quite a hefty bribe to arrange. Fortunately, the Sassenach are quite venal."

"Then if all the arrangements are made, why are we standing around here? Let's be away!"

"Not so fast, young Cormac! I'll have your word—all of your words—that you'll not be doing anything daft! Your role is tomorrow at dawn, not before."

"You have our word, Father." Liam spoke for them all. Father Patrick nodded. The group then headed toward the entrance to the tunnel that was hidden just above the Boyne. The horses were kept there, fed and watered and exercised at night and well hidden during the day. They saddled up in silence; Mickeen saddled Fharannain as well. His inclusion, riderless, in the journey was a testament to their hope. If all went well, Connor would be riding Fharannain when they fled Dublin on the morrow.

"If I may, I'll ride with you, Father," Caitlyn said, stopping beside the priest as he tightened the saddle on his well-fleshed bay. He looked down at her, compassion in his eyes. Then he nodded.

"Aye, my child, you may. I'll be glad of your company, in truth."

Caitlyn, in breeches and coat for the occasion, swung aboard the pretty piebald mare that Cormac had procured for her during one of his nightly forays into the world above. Caitlyn called her Meg, and tried not to envision the disaster that would occur should she, through some terrible mischance, come face to face with Meg's former owner. But Cormac assured her there was small risk of that, as he had taken the mare from the stable of an inn on the far side of Crumcondra.

Mickeen rolled aside the huge rock that blocked the entrance to the fissure. In a moment they were out in the freezing rain, pulling their hoods tightly around their faces as they split up.

They would meet again just before dawn.

"I'll ride with you as well, if you've no objections, Father," Cormac said, bringing Kildare up beside Meg. "I'm loath to let Caitlyn here out of my sight. Conn would be wroth with us should we get him away and lose Caitlyn again in the process."

Father Patrick expressed no objection, and the three of them rode in silence toward Dublin.

There was a considerable amount of traffic on the road, all bound for the hanging on the morrow. The whole countryside was astir with news of the Dark Horseman's fate.

They were some hours on the road, and the darkness and freezing rain made the ground underfoot treacherous. Riding single file, sandwiched between Father Patrick's comfortable bulk ahead of her and Cormac behind, Caitlyn was so anxious to arrive and get on with it that she could scarcely restrain herself from setting Meg to a gallop. But she had to be patient, she reminded herself. For Connor's sake. For weeks now she and the younger d'Arcys had been going insane trying to dream up ways to save him. Father Patrick had come up with the only plan that had the remotest chance of succeeding. It hinged on so many factors that the possibility of something going wrong was immense. But everything that could be done had been done. The only thing that could make a bit of difference now was prayer. And pray she did, fervently, even as her thoughts wandered over the weeks just past. . . .

After dealing with Sir Edward, she had fled at once to Connor's house on Curzon Street, only to find it deserted. She learned later that, immediately upon receiving word that Connor was taken, Liam had quitted the house and ridden for Oxford to collect Rory and Cormac. Sure that the authorities would soon be looking for them as well, the three of them and Mickeen had prudently taken lodgings in a seedy rooming house near the quay while they awaited word of Connor's fate. Their fears were well grounded. Even while he was using them to threaten Caitlyn, Sir Edward had already revealed the younger d'Arcys' involvement in Connor's crimes. Caitlyn was uncertain whether he had mentioned her, though she rather thought not. He had still had use for her at the time, after all. But it was not wise to take chances when one might pay with one's life.

Alone and penniless on the streets of London, afraid she was being hunted as a highwayman and murderer,

Caitlyn had reverted quickly to as close a persona of what she had once been as she could manage. Stealing clothes hung out to dry, she had garbed herself as a boy and for the next week had haunted the streets surrounding Newgate Prison, where street talk had it they had taken Connor immediately after his arrest. She had not thought to take Sir Edward's purse from his pocket before she fled, but she managed to sell to a whore the clothes she had been wearing when she left Lisle Street. The few coins that brought her kept food in her stomach, and she slept on the streets. It was amazing how easily the survival skills she had learned when she was O'Malley the thief came back to her.

After nigh on a se'ennight had passed, she'd heard that the Dark Horseman would be moved that very day to Ireland for trial. Joining the small crowd gathered in front of the prison, she had seen no more of Connor than the outside of a curtained prison wagon as it pulled through the gates. But in the crowd she had spied Mickeen also trying to catch a glimpse of Connor at his brothers' behest. Though she stood right beside him, he did not recognize her until she grabbed his sleeve and, in a hiss, made herself know. For the first time since she had known him, he had seemed glad to see her.

"Because his lordship would be wishful for us to look after you," he said, and took her back to the seedy inn with him. Her reunion with Cormac and Rory had been tearful, while practical Liam had sworn eternal vengeance in his brother's name when she told them some part of how she had been used. The three of them would have charged in pursuit of Sir Edward and murdered him on the spot had she not been able to assure them that she had taken care of it herself.

They then had set out for Ireland, where they had gone first to Father Patrick at St. Albans.

He had counseled them to hide while he did what he could for Connor. None of them had really thought Connor would be hanged. Irrationally, they had expected a miracle, but no miracle had as yet occurred. Connor would die on the morrow unless their last desperate gamble paid off.