Fortunate Son (7 page)

Purcell hesitated, then said, “Aye. Something of that nature.”

“I am certain he deserved it,” Mackercher said. “But that will not be well received at the King's Bench. With the constable buried in the moat.…” He glanced at Fynn, who nodded. “…that matter seems at rest, and there we should hope it stays. Nay, gentlemen, we'll never get Richard to the gallows by such means.” He stared at the tin pots still hanging on the wall, tapping them softly. “Ya'd only be weaving yar own hemp—tying yar own noose.”

They were all quiet for a while, sipping their ale. Mackercher liked both of the men, especially Fynn Kennedy. Fynn was a man whom Mackercher could admire, a simple man, plainspoken, yet proud. He could feel the strength emanating from Fynn—it filled the room. Fynn wanted to kill Richard as much as he did, but Fynn could see beyond his rage, could hold his reins in one hand and a sword in the other. For Mackercher it took both hands to rein himself in or both hands to attack. It had always seemed to be one way or the other, and he admired men who had mastered such self-control. They fascinated him, men like Fynn, yet irritated him—reminding him of what he lacked. Now he was against a wall again, wanting only to be free to attack, to charge forward…yes, as Fynn had said, blindly. He gave Fynn a brief smile. No wonder Joan had loved this man. A thumping sound came from the stairwell, and Seán came sulking into the room.

“How is Seámus?” asked Fynn. “Did ye tell him of his mother's plans?”

“Aye, Da. He was pleased.” Seán then added under his breath, “But now he's gone.”

Fynn held Seán, patting his back. “We'll see him soon, lad, in England. He'll be safe there.” After another pat, he continued, “Seán, this man is Mr. Daniel Mackercher, Joan's brother. He's come from Scotland, with his men downstairs.”

“Good t' meet ye, sir,” said Seán, offering his hand, slightly bowing his chin.

“Ya're the good friend of young Master James?”

“Aye, sir.”

Mackercher gave Seán an appreciative nod. “Everything will work itself out, lad.” He tried to picture the other boy, James Annesley. From Joan's many letters (all written by Fynn), he knew James was bright and intelligent. She had often reported James's strengths, his curious mind—the “stargazer,” she called him. Mackercher had hoped to meet James, but now the boy was gone to England. Rushed away by his wealthy mother, to safer ground. And who could fault him for that? Mackercher knew the feeling of being an orphan, and he knew what it was like to hide from men bent on killing him. But not both at once, not like what he imagined James was feeling. If only James could make his claim…. An idea burst upon him. “Where did ya say James is?”

“He's meeting his mum,” Fynn replied. “She's secreting him away t' London.”

“Where was she when all this—” Mackercher continued.

Fynn continued, “Arthur banished her two years ago, without a word t' their boy. Forbidden t' see the boy. And even now, Richard has placed a new warrant for her arrest, if she is found with the boy. She is a strong woman. This has been very difficult—”

Mackercher interrupted, “We should have the English boy, James, bring a claim against his English uncle. Aye, an English claim of property, to prove that he, James Annesley, is the rightful Earl. If we could prove it was true, then Richard would be ripped from his peerage protections.”

Fynn nodded. “I spoke with Seámus, about such a thing, but how would the cost be—”

“That'd be my concern,” barked Mackercher.

Purcell asked, “Can it be done without Jemmy?”

“No,” explained Mackercher. “He'd have to be here, before the bench.” No one spoke for a moment—this was Mackercher's decision, his money, his means. “Seán,” Mackercher continued, “can ya find Master James?”

“I don't know, sir.” Excitement filled his face. “But I know where's he's going! He might already—”

Fynn was moving. “Ye must go, Seán. Find him. Tell him t' not go with Mary, not yet. Tell him he must come here.”

“I'll get him!” Seán bolted from the kitchen, clambering down the stairs and out.

Dublin had descended into darkness. Its ancient dirty streets were all but deserted, the restless gusts whipping dust and whiffs of horse manure, announcing an approaching storm. Reaching Long Alley, near St. Winifred's Well, Jemmy heard the bells of Christ Church tolling the hour. He was close enough—only a half-mile from the cathedral, a distance he could easily cover. His heart thumped loudly. Captain Bailyn was in every shadow, Richard in every voice. About twenty steps down Long Alley, he hunkered against a soot-covered brick wall. In the blackness, under his dark green cloak, he could not be seen. But he could not see either. Couldn't see his hand outstretched before him. Couldn't see the source of the stench that wafted up around him. Above, through the narrow buildings, he could just distinguish the rooftops from the bottom of the menacing sky. Lightning ripped open the air and he looked low, getting a glimpse of the alley and the pile of rotting rats at his feet. He scurried quickly to the mouth of the alley. There he knelt behind an iron railing and peered across the nearly vacant Eustace Street, with St. Winifred's Well poking through the middle. A carriage lumbered by and Jemmy froze. After a moment, he peered around the corner, then stepped into the street, turning north toward the River Liffey. Should he go to Copper Alley? The questions flooded him yet again. Charity had specified it. But that didn't make sense. Why did it matter where he waited? Why did Charity say Copper Alley? What might be lurking there? Was it a trap? Who else knew he was going to Christ Church that night? He decided to get closer to the church but not go to Copper Alley. He kept walking, wondering what Mr. Kennedy would counsel.

The rain started slowly at first, thumping off wood, clinking the old slate roofs, splattering across Jemmy's forehead. He kept moving. Then it came harder, no longer falling in random plops, but now driving great sheets across his face. Though he hugged the building fronts, he was still getting soaked, the soot in his hair streaking down his forehead, face and neck. He could taste the raw coarseness streaming over his lips. He slipped into another alley. But once he was out of the wet blast, he realized he might not hear the bell in this storm. He cursed his foolishness. Why had he not gone directly to Christ Church? Why hadn't he just waited in Copper Alley as instructed? Why hadn't he simply done as he'd been told? He spun, sprinting into the street, running against the maelstrom, forgetting to be scared.

The rain and wind buffeted him, the water pelting his skin, washing him, biting at him, driving him on. As he rushed into an intersection, he was startled by a charging carriage and leapt from its path. His ankle twisted violently when he landed and the instant explosion of pain sent him tumbling forward, smashing into the slick mud, out of balance, rolling, and finally ramming his right shoulder into the base of an iron hitching post. He lay still for a moment, his clothes ripped, his body entirely wet and miserable. Then he heard it—the bell of Christ Church Cathedral. His heart raced, his breath shortening. He pulled himself to his feet and began a stumbling run, oblivious to the pain screaming from his ankle, and having long forgotten the ache in his side. As he reached Fishamble Street, directly across from the cathedral, the bell rang again. “Aye!” he exclaimed. But then it rang again, and Jemmy slowed to a stop. Then a fourth time. “Four rings?” he whispered to himself. “Damn. ‘Tis on the half-hour.” He backed away, panting hard, staring up at the gothic cathedral now looming over him. As he crossed Fishamble Street to Music Hall the rain began to relent.

Standing close to the wall, Jemmy shivered, lowering his chin, disconsolate, confused, feeling soreness throughout his body. Glad to be out of the rain, he knocked over an empty wood crate and plopped on one end. He tugged his cloak closer around his neck, huddling in the murky, wet darkness. Then he realized where he was—he was sitting in the mouth of Copper Alley. A coach rolled by. He moved back, off the street. He stood, peering nervously into the black reaches of the alley lit only by faint candlelight quivering from windows above. He considered the shifting shadows, then hobbled forward, eyes wide. After only a few steps, his attention was drawn to a wall recessed under an eve. There, scrawled in the dimness, was a chalky image—two circles and an “X”. He froze, staring, his heart a thumping drum. “Faith be!” he breathed. “Seán?” he called out as loud as he dared. Nothing. Only the smattering drips and splatters from the subsiding rain. “Seán?” His palms sweating, his mind a slurry of worries. He crept forward, then spun round, forcing his gaze into the corners of the alley, searching for movement, anything. “Seán, ye can't be gamin' me now,” he whispered, unbearably alarmed. He prayed for a simple single ring from that damn bell. His next thought was a fist to his gut—
Did I miss it?
He peered up at the cathedral as if he could see whether the bell had already rung.

“Fine evenin' eh?” a voice suddenly broke from the dimness behind him.

“Auugh!” Jemmy jumped, then froze, still facing the street. His mouth agape, his eyes two harvest moons, jerky and nervous.

“Good evenin', Master James.” The voice was still behind him, slithering through soot-black air. “I know what ye're thinking, looking up there.” The man's steps were coming nearer. “Ye're wondering why yer mum hasn't saved her little boy yet.” When the man stopped walking, he was just behind Jemmy, his putrid breath brushing Jemmy's neck, triggering a cold shiver down Jemmy's spine. “Ye're wondering what I'm going t'do. Aye, lad?”

Jemmy forced himself to turn around. When he did, he was looking squarely into the beady eyes of Captain Bailyn. He swallowed hard and managed to ask, “Where's Seán?”

Captain Bailyn smirked. “Oh, settle yerself. Lil' Seán has been most useful this evening. T' think yer friend would sell ye for a mere pittance.”

Jemmy stepped back. “Ye lie!”

“Now lad, are ye goin' t' make this easy?” He moved closer. “Or hard?” Bailyn's breath was blistering. Jemmy didn't answer, his mind churning, devising an escape. “Doesn't matter much t'me,” said Bailyn. Then he leaned close, whispering, “Frankly, I hope ye run. Then I get t' shoot ye.”

Without thinking, Jemmy spun and ran as best he could on his hurt foot and was almost to Fishamble Street when the figure of a large man stepped in front of him, club in hand. Jemmy skidded, slowing, then cut into a painful, furious sprint. As he dashed around the man, Jemmy saw the image of Christ Church just ahead, and in that fleeting instant he believed he was free. Then he felt the club smash his head, followed by the impact of his face hitting the stone wall of Music Hall. His eyes fogged, a flurry of color, then everything was black.

The next thing he knew, someone was tugging at him and Captain Bailyn was shouting, “Get up! Look lively, ye ragged arse.”

He slowly opened one eye, then the other, the blackness yielding to faint light, his muddled brain telling him he was in a small boat, a currach, and above, on the docks, were shadowy images, silhouettes of men.

“Stand, damn ye!” Bailyn forced him to his feet. As he stepped out of the boat, fire shot up from his ankle, causing him to stumble, dropping to his knees. Then men were picking him up now, carrying him by the feet and shoulders, hauling him headfirst up a gangway. Looking up and back, he saw he was being hauled aboard a ship. Onboard, he was once again made to walk, a rough hand pushing him ahead, moving him toward the bow.

“Bind him well,” bellowed a voice in the dark.

“Aye, Captain Hendry,” replied another.

When Jemmy stepped around an open hatch, a man yelled, “Down there lass!”

Jemmy eased down the steep companionway, into the abyss, down to the between-deck, the putrid cargo hold. Though it was as black as any Dublin alley, it smelled much worse. He bumped his head, then reached a hand up, feeling for the low ceiling. A man came down with an oil lamp, and Jemmy could see the ceiling was about nose-high to the man. To Jemmy, it just barely skimmed his head. He leaned forward as the men escorted him deep within, pushing him along until he came to a thick post. There they shackled his wrists. He sat, leaning against the post, arms stretched back behind him, watching them leave, the light fading away.

When the deck hatch closed behind them, Jemmy thought he was in a tomb. Too exhausted and stunned to cry, he slumped over, moaning. The pain from his ankle squalled at him while his head throbbed unmercifully, and his shoulder and right side reminded him that they too had been damaged. He hoped for sleep.

“Eh! Bugger in de corner,” said a scratchy voice, breaking the blackness.

Jemmy kept silent.

“Eh, new ‘un! Ye breathin' or ain't ye?”

“Aye,” whispered Jemmy, raising his head. He saw nothing, no one.

“Want t'be sure ye're alive. I'm tired o' talkin' t'de dead ones. So I am. So long as yer alive, I'll talk t'ye. Soon as ye die I won't talk t'ye no more.

“Where am I?” asked Jemmy.

“Ye don't know?”

He shook his head.

“De
Courtmain
,” said the old voice. “Merchanter. But I think Captain Hendry intends t' take us indents back.”

“The Courtmain?”

“Aye, so ‘tis.”

“Nay. Can't be,” argued Jemmy. “This is not the
Courtmain
.”

“Oh? Nay?” the voice asked with a crackly chuckle. “'Tis no other.”

Jemmy's mind chased itself in confused circles. How could it be? Why would Richard put him on the same ship as his mother? What was happening? Had Seán betrayed him? No. Had his mother? Of course not! He hunched forward, everything quiet, only the sound of the ship creaking against the soft tide. Then he heard it. Resonating ever so faintly: a single, solemn toll, a bell ringing once, a clang from a cathedral far away.