The Maid of Ireland (25 page)

“Here, sir,” Alonso snapped out. “Who are you?”

“Your worst enemy,” Wesley said without slackening his pace.

“Wesley, no!” Caitlin stepped in front of Alonso.

He stopped walking. Huge and powerful, he had the look of a man who had never lost a battle. His sword sliced from its sheath. “Step aside, Caitlin,” he said. “Or is your lover in the habit of using a woman as a shield?”

“Never!” Alonso pushed past Caitlin. His own bright blade glittered in the sun. He stepped forward and sketched a neat challenge in the air with his sword tip. “I refuse no invitation from an English commoner.”

“You’ll wish you had, you Spanish bastard.” Wesley lunged with his sword arm extended.

Their crossed blades made a metallic whine.

“Stop it, both of you!” Caitlin shouted, knowing even as she spoke that they would ignore her. They were two furious champions, each intent on victory. Alonso fought with the agile precision of a well-schooled swordsman. Wesley battled with the unearthly strength and dogged will that slapped formal training in the face. In an odd way, they were well matched: Alonso’s crafty quickness against Wesley’s raw fury.

Alonso extended himself in a perfectly executed lunge. Wesley leapt back, bumping into a stone bench behind him. Undaunted, he made a grand backward jump and mounted the bench. He took full advantage of the added height, his wrath blazing in the face of Alonso’s icy composure.

Alonso’s close-playing wrist sought entrance to Wesley’s broad-reaching defense. The Spaniard fenced magnificently, cold as steel, his eyes blank and pitiless. In contrast, Wesley flamed with passion.

He leapt down from the bench. By main force he battled Alonso backward across the greensward, where a crowd had quickly gathered. Alonso made an ill-timed thrust. Wesley caught the blade with the edge of his. They came together, swords crossed, chests heaving, muscles trembling, with deadly effort.

“Tell me, my friend,” said Wesley, panting hard, “do you make it a practice to seduce other men’s wives?”

For a split second, Alonso’s cold composure vanished. His jaw dropped. His grip on the hilt faltered.

Wesley’s booted foot came up. In a ploy that would appall any master swordsman, he stomped on Alonso’s foot.

The Spaniard cried out. Wesley plucked the sword from his hand and flung the blade away. With the same motion, he whipped his point to Alonso’s throat.

“Wesley!” Caitlin rushed forward. “I beg you, don’t—”

“He won’t,” said Alonso in a shaky voice. His eyes flooded with relief as he looked past Wesley’s shoulder.

Swords drawn, Alonso’s companions raced toward them. Two women wearing lacy black shawls hurried in their wake. The plump younger one carried a baby on her hip.

“Release me,” said Alonso, “or my men will run you through like a sausage on a stick.”

Wesley hesitated for a heartbeat, then lowered his sword. The heat of madness cooled; his anger turned in on himself. He should have exercised more self-control. He should not have surrendered to the rage that had gripped him on seeing Caitlin fling herself at the Spaniard.

The younger woman clung to Alonso and spoke in rapid Spanish, making sure he wasn’t injured. In moments, Caitlin would know the truth. Wesley hated the dark satisfaction that crept over him. “I’m sure Mrs. Hawkins would be delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said to the woman.

Alonso gave a hiss of anger as he looked from the Spanish woman to Caitlin. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, then snapped a practiced bow. “Doña Maria,” he stated. “And this is little Federico. My wife and son.”

Wesley would have traded his sword arm to spare Caitlin the pain he saw so clearly in her eyes. The amber jewels seemed to splinter like shards of sunlight. The color dropped from her face. Her hands clenched into fists.

But she was still the MacBride. She recovered in scant seconds. Like a queen bestowing royal favors, she nodded at her Spanish swain’s wife, then swept back toward the palace.

Sheathing his sword, Wesley hurried after her. “I’m sorry. But you had to know.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “You English bastard. You planned this. Is it your mission in life to hurt me, make me miserable? Do you take pleasure in my pain?”

“You have to feel the hurt before you can start to heal.”

“Oh, spare me.” She tossed her head and quickened her stride. “Don’t we have an appointment with Oliver Cromwell?”

Thirteen

A
long, stark corridor lined with menacing-looking pikemen opened to the equally stark privy chamber. There, at a polished table in front of a hanging that bore the arms of the Protectorate, sat Oliver Cromwell.

Caitlin stopped walking. Her face and lips paled, making her eyes appear vividly gold. Wesley tried to guess what she was feeling as she faced the man responsible for laying waste to her homeland and outlawing her faith. His legions burned crops and pillaged towns. They abducted women and children and sent them away in bondage. They hanged rebels, butchered livestock and stole horses. They razed castles and ripped families apart.

And here he sat, holding court like a monarch. His badly barbered hair, red-brown streaked with iron, framed a face that, Wesley realized, had aged years in mere months. Peering beneath the studied cruelty of that face, he saw a man who had lost his grandchild and whose favorite daughter lay dying.

“Mr. Hawkins, come in, and bring your companion.” Cromwell gestured amiably. “You, too, Mr. Thurloe.” Clad in severe Puritan black, John Thurloe entered through a side doorway.

Wesley placed his hand in the middle of Caitlin’s back. “Courage, darling,” he murmured under his breath.

She stiffened at his touch. Her anger over the meeting with the Spaniard burned Wesley like a glowing iron.

A retainer brought wine. The servant discreetly sipped from a cup, swirling the liquid in his mouth before swallowing and handing it with a nod to the Lord Protector. So, Cromwell worried about poisoning.

“Do sit down,” invited Cromwell.

“I prefer to stand,” said Wesley. “We should be able to conclude our business in a matter of minutes.”

Cromwell glanced at a letter on the table in front of him. “I shall be the one to declare when—and if—our business is successfully concluded.”

An ominous chill tiptoed up Wesley’s spine. “You demanded that I deliver the chieftain of the Fianna. And so I have.”

Cromwell and Thurloe craned their necks to see beyond the doorway. “Where is the godless cur?” demanded the Lord Protector.

Wesley slipped his arm around Caitlin’s shoulders. “You’re looking at her, sir.”

A burst of harsh laughter exploded from Cromwell. “By the Almighty, Hawkins! I didn’t think even you would stoop so low.” His bright, cold eyes drifted over Caitlin. The blatant appreciation in his regard made Wesley itch to rip his face off.

“He speaks the truth.” Caitlin’s voice rang clear and sweet as a harp in the cavernous room. At the sound of her liquid, Irish purr, Cromwell and Thurloe exchanged a glance. She added, “I am Caitlin MacBride.”

Wesley started to add “Hawkins,” but Cromwell slapped his hands on the table and surged to his feet. “You’re the treacherous mistress of Clonmuir?”

“Treachery is your specialty, not mine. I am also the MacBride, chief of my sept.”

“You have led the Fianna on all its murderous raids?”

Fierce hatred sharpened her features. “Aye, I admit it.”

“How very interesting,” said Cromwell. He sighed and sat back down. Weariness carved vertical lines in his cheeks. “You realize that you face a penalty of death for breaking my laws.”

Wesley felt a subtle trembling in her shoulders, but her voice was steady. “Sir, I cannot trespass against your laws because I did not submit to them.”

Red patches mottled his cheeks. “All Ireland submits to me! Madam, your country will accept the law and order of my Protectorate.”

“You brought no law and order to Ireland,” she snapped. “You brought only greedy settlers who bleed us dry, take our lands and charge us taxes. If that’s your brand of law and order, you can keep it. Don’t pollute Ireland with it.”

Her loathing shone as pure and clean as a polished blade. Cromwell’s answering hatred was corrupt, sullied by ambition and intolerance. “Nevertheless, I rule Ireland—and you.”

“The wench has a fiery tongue, to be sure,” said Thurloe. “But the Irish are born liars.”

Caitlin glared at him. “And who—or what—might you be?”

Thurloe’s nostrils thinned. He picked up a quill and dipped it in ink, making a notation at the bottom of a document. “Secretary of State to the Commonwealth.”

She thrust up her chin. “Bully for you.”

Cromwell addressed Wesley. “I presume you have proof.”

“I witnessed the raid she led. So did a lieutenant named Edmund Ladyman.” Wesley produced Ladyman’s statement, notarized by Hammersmith. He gestured at the man who stood in the doorway. Clearly overawed by the Lord Protector, the Scotsman gave a sharp salute. “MacKenzie will attest to the authenticity of this.”

Caitlin, who had looked death in the face a hundred times and laughed at it, twined her fingers together in fear.

Cromwell added the document to his papers. “There will be a trial, of course. A mere formality given the evidence. And then—” Cromwell sighed “—I’m afraid the outcome is rather distasteful. But I must make an example of you. Other Irish rebels must learn the price of murdering the English.”

He raised his hand to summon a guard.

“Not so fast.” Wesley’s voice lashed like a black whip. “You gave your word in writing that if I brought you the leader of the Fianna, you’d not harm me or my kin.”

“I fully intend to honor my word.”

“Good. Then you must understand that you cannot harm Caitlin.”

“Why the devil not?”

“Because she’s my kin. I married her.”

Thurloe dropped his quill and his jaw. Cromwell leapt up again. His wineglass fell to the floor and shattered, the red wine pooling like blood on the floor.

Wesley placed yet another paper before the Lord Protector. “There it is, sir. The special license, the witnessed certificate. She is my legal wife and my kin.”

“There can be no marriage between Irish and English.”

“We married on the high seas. The union is legal.”

“Why you conniving papist devil,” shouted Cromwell.

The Secretary of State examined the documents. “They seem to be in order, Your Highness.”

“I’ve registered copies with the High Court of Justice and the Commissioners. Oh, and also with Viscount Fauconberg.”

Rage blazed across Cromwell’s face at the mention of his son-in-law. Fauconberg had royalist leanings and plenty of influence. He’d not look kindly upon Cromwell’s schemes.

With growing confidence, Wesley curved his arm around Caitlin’s waist. “If you so much as let your shadow fall on this woman, you’ll be exposed as a faithless breaker of promises, unworthy of the trust of the lowliest mongrel in the kingdom.”

“There is no kingdom. I have made of England a Commonwealth dedicated to republican principles.”

“And that’s why you’ll keep your word,” said Wesley. “The public trust is everything, is it not? One slip,
Highness,
and you’ll find every eye in England turned eastward. To a small town on the Continent. To a man called Charles Stuart.”

Cromwell pounded the table. “Do not dare to utter the traitor’s name in my presence!”

“But who will be called traitor if you break faith with your sworn agreement?” asked Wesley.

“You haven’t stopped the Fianna, my good friend.” Triumph flashed in Cromwell’s eyes as he waved a letter in the air. Wesley snatched the letter. “What’s this?”

“A communiqué from Titus Hammersmith, dated just eight days ago. The Fianna has struck again. And on a day when you and your whore of a wife were at sea.”

“No!” said Caitlin. “That can’t be.”

Wesley forgot to breathe until his lungs screamed for air. Rory Breslin, he thought. Tom Gandy. Conn O’Donnell and Liam the smith and all the others. They must have torn apart the entire west coast of Ireland searching for Caitlin. Damn them. Their loyalty had slipped a noose around their necks.

“This must be the work of a different faction,” he said. “I have done my part. You can’t hold me responsible for the actions of every band of rebels in Ireland.”

Cromwell motioned to Thurloe. “Take Mrs. Hawkins to the outer chamber. She could use a bracing dish of tea.”

Wesley stepped in front of her. “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

“Quit playing the gallant. She’ll be perfectly safe with Mr. Thurloe. Besides,” he added persuasively, “you and I have further business to discuss.”

Knowing precisely what the Lord Protector meant, Wesley stepped aside. Shooting a last, furious look at Wesley, Caitlin left with Thurloe. The door closed with a loud thump.

Wesley whirled on Cromwell. “Where is she?”

“Patience, patience, my good friend.” Cromwell walked unhurriedly to a side door and tapped on the panel.

In walked Hester Clench, her black-clad arm around a child’s tiny shoulders.

“Laura.”
Rushing to her, Wesley dropped to one knee in front of her and cradled her against his chest. Her sweet pure scent flowed like a stream of sunshine through him. “Oh, my Laura.” He kissed both cheeks.

She pulled back. A familiar locket winked on her chest, and sober confusion glowed in her green eyes. “Hello, Papa. You mustn’t kiss me so. Auntie Clench says it’s unseemly.”

His arms went numb. His child extracted herself from his embrace, taking a piece of his heart with her.

“What’s the matter, Laura?” he asked. She was dressed all in black, a pale little mourner regarding a corpse. “Aren’t you happy to see your papa?”

“Laura, dear.” Cromwell’s voice dripped like treacle into the conversation. “Come see what I’ve got for you. Lively now.”

Oblivious to Wesley, Laura skipped across the room and climbed into the Lord Protector’s lap. “What is it, Uncle Oliver?” She pressed her hands to his quilted doublet.

“Here.” He brought out a little silver bell. “Something sweet to remind you of the sweetness of our Lord Jesus.”

She rang the bell, and her laughter joined its chiming. “Thank you, Uncle! I can’t wait to show Miss Bettie!”

Wesley’s heart sank like a rock. He shot a venomous glare at Hester Clench; then he slowly approached the table. It took all his control to keep his expression pleasant and fatherly. Inside he seethed. The bell was one of those rung by Catholics at the consecration. Trust the bastard to turn a sacred object into a child’s toy.

Seeing her seated, laughing and secure, in the Lord Protector’s lap, Wesley felt his plans unravel, and panic broke in a cold sweat over him. He had to get her out of here, and fast. “Laura, darling,” he said. “I’ve come to take you with me. We can be together again.”

Instead of the joy he had expected, instead of the smile he had envisioned during the long weeks in Ireland, she clutched at Cromwell and regarded her father with apprehension. “You’re taking me away?”

“Yes, Laura. We’ll be together again.”

“Uncle Oliver says it’s not safe to wander the roads with you.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Laura. And haven’t I always? I swear it.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t want to go! I have a skin horse and a dollhouse and my friend Lisbeth to play with at Hampton Court, and—” She pressed her face into Cromwell’s doublet. “Please don’t make me go away. I want to stay with you and Auntie Clench and Miss Bettie.”

Cromwell stroked her hair. “There, there, poppet.”

Wesley tried to deny the gentleness in the way Cromwell handled the child. He tried to deny the real affection the Lord Protector showed to Laura. But despite his reputation, despite his manipulative ways, Cromwell did possess a softness. “Run along with Mrs. Clench and she’ll help you draw a nice picture to take to Miss Bettie at Hampton Court. And you can have seed cakes and oranges for tea.”

Wesley thought of the crude meals he had scraped together for her over the years of running and hiding.

Laura sniffled. “Can I have honey on my cakes?”

“Of course, poppet.”

She dropped from his lap and ran to Hester Clench.

“Laura...” said Wesley, his voice close to breaking.

Almost as an afterthought, she called, “Goodbye, Papa!” She skipped out, her father already forgotten.

Wesley shuddered with a feeling of betrayal and inadequacy. How easily he had lost his daughter’s affection. “Damn your soul to hell,” he whispered to Cromwell. “I’m surprised you didn’t see fit to flaunt my daughter before my wife.”

Cromwell rubbed his temples. “I’d not bring shame upon that child, Mr. Hawkins. And no one must know of our arrangement.”

Wesley gave a bitter bark of laughter. “Ah, yes, your precious reputation once again. The public trust and all that. I’ve a mind to let the public know that you take children from their parents—”

“Do that,” said Cromwell, each word a ball of hot lead in Wesley’s gut, “and you’ll never see the girl again.”

“You bastard.” Wesley itched to pound Cromwell’s face into a pulp. “You turned her against me.”

“I fulfilled her needs. As you can see, we treat the child with love and care. She’s been such a comfort to my Bettie.”

A comfort, thought Wesley, his panic burning hotter. For a woman who had just lost a small child. God, Lady Claypole might never let Laura go. “You’re manipulating an innocent mind.”

Cromwell’s face chilled. “Look at the facts, man. When Mrs. Clench brought Laura here, the child was a bedraggled urchin, unwashed, ill-fed, crude of manner and ungovernable.”

Against his will, Wesley remembered nights she had fallen asleep hungry because they were on the run from priest catchers. He remembered the times they had slept in hayricks or cellars. He remembered picking lice from her hair, his clumsy mending of her clothes when she tore them. But through all the hardships, her sunny disposition had rarely dimmed. “She was a happy child,” he insisted.

“She simply didn’t know any other life,” Cromwell said reasonably. “But thanks to Mrs. Clench and my own dear daughter, Laura has learned that there are such things as warm baths and comfortable beds. Forks and plates. Good, hearty meals.”

“Creature comforts are nothing.”

“That’s an ignorant statement even from you. You dragged the child from pillar to post, sleeping in the rain and taking her among people of questionable character. Is it any wonder she prefers her new life?”

“It’s an artificial life. She’s been rewarded like a pet spaniel for performing a clever trick.”