The Crafters Book Two (5 page)

“Have you ever seen such a beautiful girl?” he said to Burke.

Burke looked puzzled. “We just passed old Sean O’Dowd—he was leading a roan horse—there was no one with him.”

Crafter twisted in his saddle, and Burke was right! There was one rider on a black horse leading a big roan horse, and there was nobody on the roan.

“Who is O’Dowd?” he asked.

“Why, he lives on your property about two miles from here on the edge of the Tullyhoge Fort that was built before Blessed Saint Patrick made Christians of us all.”

“I must needs meet this O’Dowd after we find our workmen,” Crafter said, half to himself.

After hiring men who could work with brick and stone and hiring men who could dig ditches and plant trees, and giving Burke orders, Crafter set off at a quick trot toward the ancient hill fort.

He followed the narrow track Burke had pointed out and saw hoof prints in the soft mud. He came to a small thatched cottage that lay close under the green slope of the fort. He called, “O’Dowd, come out, please.”

O’Dowd came out the front door, bending his head so he could fit under the door frame. He was over six feet tall, wiry, and not as old-looking as his bald head suggested. “Yes, Squire,” said O’Dowd. “You want me?”

“You know me?” asked Crafter.

“All know you, the American who took Lord Larne’s lands and holdings. What may I do for you, Squire?”

“I would like to meet your daughter.”

“I have no daughter!” O’Dowd said sullenly.

“You have; I saw her riding with you. She has red hair, a green cloak, and she rides a great roan horse.”

O’Dowd answered, “You couldn’t have seen her unless ...”

“Unless he has the gift or the Talent of our people,” said the beauty as she stepped through the door.

Crafter looked at her in wonder. She was even lovelier than when he first saw her. “Eben Crafter, your servant, Mistress.”

She curtseyed. “Maeve O’Dowd, Squire Crafter,” she said, then grinned. “And I’d like to have you as my servant.”

“Daughter, mind your manners,” growled O’Dowd. He turned to Crafter. “Please come within my house. What is mine is yours,” he said, following the ancient Irish formula of welcome.

Inside, there was a warm turf fire and two tall wax candles. The furniture was simple, but well-made and sturdy. “Sit, Squire, if you please,” said O’Dowd. “Would you be havin’ a wee drop to clear the dust of the road from your throat?”

“An excellent idea,” said Crafter, watching the girl, who suddenly disappeared before his eyes. “Oho, what have we here?” The girl reappeared in the middle of the room with an earthen flask and three glasses.

Before Eben Crafter could say a word, there was a glass in his hand.
“Slainte!”
said O’Dowd and his daughter in unison and drank. Crafter drank, too. The fiery liquor warmed his throat—no, seared his throat—and his eyes watered.

“Good Lord, what was that?” Crafter coughed. “The water of life,” said Maeve.

“Whiskey,
Usquebaugh
in the Irish Gaelic and in the Scots Gaelic, too,” said O’Dowd. “It is very like the spirits of Scotland: whisky. Irish priests taught the process to the Scots centuries ago.”

“I’ve had the spirits from Scotland, but this tastes stronger,” said Crafter. “Much stronger.”

“You should try poteen that your tenants make,” Maeve said, laughing. “It would melt your teeth.”

“Enough,” O’Dowd said quietly. “Come within. We know of what you did to Justice Blackman. We felt his evil vanish.”

They led Crafter through a door, and he was inside a huge hall, under the hill fort, a room that was at least thirty feet square with a roof twenty feet high. The hall was lighted by a hundred or more tall candles. The walls were hung with tapestries, ancient axes, swords, and shields of bronze and gold.

“Who are you? What are you?” asked Crafter.

“We are
cluricaunes,”
said O’Dowd, “part of the Sidhe—the people who lived here before the Celts ever came to this island.”

Maeve continued. “We have some magic powers, but we keep them hidden. We came from the South, near Cork. We left there, for some thought my father a warlock.”

“You have power, too,” said O’Dowd. “What is the source: good or evil?”

“My powers come from my great-grandparents, Amer and Samona Crafter. He was an alchemist who turned to the study of natural science. He learned to transmute base metals into silver—he hoped for gold, silver was the best he could do. Samona was a witch who gave up her powers, but some of those powers seem to have been passed on to her offspring. I, too, can transmute metals to silver, see through paper—even playing cards. I know if anyone tells the truth, and I’m immune to all spells.”

Maeve moved very close to him as he spoke, “You know if one speaks the truth? You will marry me in the month of May, this year.”

Crafter looked at her. Her father started to say something, but Crafter said, “Yes!”

* * *

So it was on the first Saturday of May in 1781 that Eben Crafter and Maeve O’Dowd were to be wed.

As he dressed that morning in his fawn-colored knee breeches, his fine linen shirt with the white silk neck cloth under his gold-figured Chinese-silk waistcoat, his best white silk stockings, his black shoes with the polished silver buckles, and his new plum-colored broadcloth coat with silver buttons, he gazed into the mirror.

The face that stared back at Crafter was thin, the cheekbones high, the eyes deep-set and blue, the nose a bit too long, the chin firm, and there were dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. He watched as Burke tied the black ribbon to hold his long brown hair in a neat club down his back.

“You look grand, sir,” said Burke.

“Thank you. Are we ready, Burke?”

“Yes, sir, I have the carriage and the two white horses ready in front.”

“Let’s go,” said Crafter.

* * *

“Do you, Eben Crafter, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health until death do you part?” asked the round little minister of the Church of Ireland in his surprising bass voice.

“I do,” said Eben, looking at Maeve. No longer needing to hide, the Irish beauty was visible to them all.

“Do you, Maeve O’Dowd, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband? To love, honor, and obey in sickness and health until death do you part?”

“I do,” said Maeve in a low voice. She turned to Eben and smiled. She looked like a red-haired angel dressed in white.

“Then, by the powers vested in me by the Holy Church, I pronounce you husband and wife,” intoned the minister.

With her right hand Maeve lifted her veil away from her face. Eben kissed her gently. “More later,” he whispered.

They turned to leave the church and saw that only a half dozen were in the pews.

“No guests, my dear,” Crafter said.

“They may be at the house,” suggested Maeve.

When they came out into the sunlight, the few offered good wishes. Eben’s solicitor, Thomas D’ Arcy, handed Maeve into the carriage.

Back home, Eben carried Maeve over the threshold. “Welcome to your home, my dear, and may all your years here be blessed.”

She looked at the shabby entryway and then saw Mrs. Burke in her one clean dress. “Bless this house and all who dwell therein.”

“Amen!” said Mrs. Burke.

“Mrs. Burke, this is your new mistress, Mrs. Crafter. My dear, this is Mrs. Burke, Bridgit, who cooks and cleans.”

Mrs. Burke bobbed a curtsey. “I be cookin’ and tryin’ ta keep things in good order.”

Maeve said curtly, “I can see that this place needs a good cleaning.”

Mrs. Burke muttered half under her breath,
“Puga ma hone!”

“
Puga rna hone,
is it? ‘Kiss my ass’? Well, listen to this ...” Maeve said in a quiet voice, then continued with a streak of Gaelic that became louder and louder. She finished in English:

“Do you understand?”

Mrs. Burke wilted and blushed under the torrent of words.

Her head bowed, she said meekly, “I’m sorry, my lady. I thought you were one of those Englished kind of ladies who didn’t understand nothin’! Forgive me bad manners, and I’ll never make a mistake like that again if you’ll keep me on.”

Maeve looked stern. “I know you won’t, for from now on it will be the lady of the house who will be in charge, not some man who knows nothing of a proper home.”

Then turning to Eben, Maeve said, “I’ll look at the house with you tomorrow. Now we are to have guests. We must be ready.”

No guests came except Sean O’Dowd and the solicitor, Thomas D’Arcy. O’Dowd carried two heavy saddlebags and dropped them on the floor. “Mr. D’ Arcy, Esquire, I shall need you in your legal capacity,” O’Dowd said in formal tones. “You’ll help me count out the dowry.”

“We never talked dowry, Mr. O’Dowd,” Eben said.

“Did you think a daughter of mine would wed without a proper dowry?”

With that, he poured the contents of the bags to the floor. “There should be £4,000, in gold. Count it please, Mr. Solicitor.”

D’ Arcy counted twice. “I find there are fifty guineas more than the four thousand pounds,” he said.

“Let it be, the girl is worth much more!”

“Sir, I agree! I never expected such a noble gift beyond your wonderful daughter.” Eben shook O’Dowd’s hand and embraced the older man.

“Now, our guests? I invited all the landowners hereabouts.”

“I saw none on the way here,” said O’Dowd.

“I wonder why none are here?” Eben asked.

“You wed a ‘native,’ you know,” Maeve said.

Crafter cursed long and loud in anger, then said, “There are two oxen roasting, there is whiskey, wine, and all sorts of sweets—we should invite our tenants. Burke, take my horse and invite every soul from the estate.”

“Aye, sir, that I’ll do.”

Within the hour the floor of the barn was swept; people were eating, drinking, and dancing to the music of the bagpipes, fiddles, and drums. Hands were clapping when little Joe Burke took Maeve into the center and started to do the step-dance. Maeve watched for a moment, then matched step for step. Mrs. Burke grabbed Eben and he, too, danced after a fashion. After several hours all the men picked up the bride, tossed her in the air, and caught her neatly in a chair. They did the same with Crafter. They paraded them out of the barn and around the house three times; they deposited them at the door of the house. “Be havin’ a good night’s sleep,” they shouted with much laughter. “Good night.”

Maeve and Eben were alone in the house. He took her by the hand, kissed her, and led her upstairs to their bedroom, which was lit with four tall candles. Maeve turned her back and started to undress; Eben did likewise. She turned to him; he looked with wonder. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, “and you
are
a redhead!”

“Oh, you!” she said, waved her hands, and the candles were extinguished. She was in his arms.

* * *

“Get up, you slug-a-bed,” said Maeve. “We have a home to put in order.” She was already dressed, in everyday clothes, so Eben did what any sane husband would do, he got up.

Breakfast was different: the porridge wasn”t lumpy, the tea was hot, and there were toasted squares of buttered bread.

The day was full of wonders. Maeve had a dozen of the tenant women and girls helping to dust, clean, and polish all corners of the house; even the window panes gleamed as they had not in ages. At the end of the day, Maeve led Eben on a tour of inspection. “We’re going to need furniture,” she said.

“We will have it made in Dublin, when we go there,” Eben agreed.

“When?” Maeve wanted to know.

“Tomorrow, if you wish.”

“I wish!”
Maeve said, grinning. “I’ve never been to Dublin Town.”

* * *

On an overcast Monday they caught the Dublin mail coach.

“I have nothing to wear in the city,” Maeve said.

“Not to worry, we’ll have everything made for you in Dublin.”

The coach shook and rattled on the rutted road south out of Cookstown, through the dreary, colorless town of Dunngannon some dozen miles on. From Dunngannon it was almost twenty hard, bumpy miles to Armagh.

During the ride Maeve chattered happily about the wedding, about the things needed for the house, and she held on to Eben when the coach rocked.

Eben kept the heavy leather bag between his feet. “This is our fortune in silver and gold,” he told his young wife. “We must put a good portion in the bank in Dublin.” He gave a small purse to Maeve with one hundred guineas. “You should have money of your own,” he said. “After all,” he added, with a grin, “you are the wife of a rich landlord.”

Maeve took one of the gold guineas from the purse, twirled it in the air, and caught
two
guineas.

“Magic?” asked Eben.

“No, my Talent—making gold coins increase in number as many times as I wish.”

Eben thought for a moment. “The rich landlord has a richer wife,” he observed.

In Armagh, they stopped for the night at The Mitre Inn.

“Well-named,” said Maeve. “Both the Catholic and the Protestant archbishops have their seats in Armagh.”

Before they supped, they looked at the hilly town. Afterwards, they rested in the only good room at the Inn.

The next morning, Eben engaged a well-sprung carriage to take them on to Dublin. Their driver shouted as they clattered over the bridge at Newry, “That’s the Town Hall on the bridge. Odd place for it, haint it?”

They moved south fast into the Boyne Valley toward Drogheda. “This is where King James and King Bill fought the Battle of the Boyne,” yelled the driver over the clatter of the coach.

In Drogheda, Maeve said quietly, “This is the town where Cromwell killed almost everyone over a hundred years ago.”

“The Irish don’t forgive and forget, do they?” Eben asked.

“No,” said Maeve. “It’s forgive and remember!”

As they headed out of town, Eben saw shattered walls that reminded him of ugly, broken teeth.

They drove along the coast to the pretty village of Balbriggan and down through the village of Swords. “A few more miles and we’ll see the River Liffy and Dublin,” the driver called. He stopped at the top of a small hill to give them a view of Dublin. The sun came out, and a rainbow appeared to paint the steeples and rooftops in radiant color.