The Maid of Ireland (30 page)

They had ridden a mile to the south when hoofbeats drummed behind them. Like a horseman from the underworld, Logan Rafferty galloped out of the twilight.

Magheen gave a shriek of both terror and triumph. Logan bore down on her. Their horses ran neck and neck, so close that their shoulders bumped. He snatched her from the saddle in a move worthy of a carnival gypsy.

Magheen screamed. And then fell silent.

Wesley’s last glimpse, just before they crested a rise in the road, was of the lord and his lady embracing passionately, on a horse galloping back to Brocach.

Fifteen

“I
n my born, natural life,” said Rory, “I wouldn’t have been after believing it would work.” With grudging admiration, he eyed Wesley across the round table in the hall of Clonmuir. “Rafferty’ll keep her, and no more talk of dowries.”

“Aye,” said Tom Gandy, “and Magheen will see to sending food. Well done,
a chara.
”

“It was just a matter of understanding the nature of a desperate man in love,” said Wesley.

“You’re such an expert,” said Caitlin.

“Long on brains, after all,” Rory said in Irish, “to make up for the shortness otherwise.”

Force of habit had taught Wesley to ignore the recurring gibe. Into the hall came the smallholder named Darrin Mudge, a surly man who had a longstanding debt to Caitlin. Playing upon her generous nature, he had for a few years refused to pay. She had summoned him today, for he was the last of her neighbors who possessed livestock.

“Sure it’s not a thing I remember.” Mudge scratched his head beneath a soiled hat.

“You mean it’s not convenient for you to remember,” Caitlin said. “But it’s past time you paid. I’ve mouths to feed.”

“On my oath, I cannot—”

“Yes, let’s talk of oaths,” Wesley cut in. The smallholder’s manner grated on his nerves. “Would you be willing to swear an oath that you owe no debt to Clonmuir?”

“Aye, of course, but—”

“Then listen carefully and repeat after me.”

“Wesley,” said Caitlin. “This is not your—”

Tom shushed her with a wave of his hand.

Thank God, thought Wesley as she closed her mouth and planted her elbows on the table. At last she seemed to accept that he might have something of value to say. “Now, Mr. Mudge,” he continued. “Here is the oath. If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”

“If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”

“May the bloat poison my herd—”

“Eh? That be a curse, not an oath!”

Wesley fixed him with a commanding stare. “May the bloat poison my herd—”

“Ach,
musha.
” Mudge pressed his hands together. “May the bloat poison my herd—”

“—and may my fine flock of sheep be clifted—”

Mudge took a step back. “What be this curse you’re trying to bring upon me, Englishman?”

“Don’t argue with the husband of the MacBride!” Rory thundered.

Mudge made the sign of the cross. “And may my fine flock of sheep—” He sent Caitlin a pleading glance. “Can this truly be in the oath?”

“You’re calling on God to punish you if you don’t speak the truth,” Caitlin explained.

“And may the high King of Glory permit my children to get the mange,” Wesley added.

“Oh, God!” Mudge broke out in a fine sweat. “Bedad, I remember me now. ’Tis a debt I’ll be paying you before the sun sets!” Shaken, he scurried down the length of the hall. Silence, then huge gusts of merry laughter, chased him out.

Rory scrubbed the mirth from his eyes and lifted his mug to Wesley. “Well done, by God!”

Wesley raised his own cup to acknowledge the salute; then he looked at Caitlin.

She regarded him with a bitterness that stabbed at his heart. God, would he never learn to anticipate her? He had solved the problem of the debt. But in doing so, he had usurped her authority. And it would not be the last time.

“Let’s get to supper,” she murmured.

The meager meal on the table could hardly be called supper. The turnip and potato soup, already thin, had been doubled by water.

In London, this type of hunger would have incited a riot. But here at Clonmuir, the people accepted deprivation with order and civility, even gratitude.

Wesley’s temper took wing. Had these people been thieves or outlaws, he would have felt nothing for their plight. But they were pious folk who had done no worse than occupy a magical isle coveted by its English neighbors.

English greed made them suffer. In just a few short months, winter would come rushing upon the land, bringing starvation with the cold.

Even as a decision firmed in his mind, he ached for Caitlin. Once again, he would have to override her convictions. But surely she could not resent him any more than she already did.

“We’re going on a cattle raid,” he said.

Caitlin’s spoon dropped with a clatter. “A cattle raid, is it?”

“That’s what I said.” Feeling the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes on him, Wesley explained, “We’ve less than a week’s worth of stores. There is only the milch cow left in the byre. Mudge’s payment in sheep will be gone long before Michaelmas. If we don’t do something, we’ll have to start slaughtering the horses.”

The outraged protests came as expected.

“That’s why I propose the raid.” He allowed himself a look at Caitlin. He wished he could pluck the moment from time and hold it forever in his heart. Unaware of the true nature of his plan, she gazed at him with admiration shining in her eyes and a heartfelt smile sweet upon her lips.

“The Fianna will ride against the Roundheads again,” she said in triumph. “Oh, Wesley, I knew you’d side with us.” She frowned; he could almost see the thoughts cavorting behind her eyes. “It’ll be a riskier venture than we’ve ever attempted since he’s so well dug in at Lough Corrib, but with—”

“Wait.” He wished he didn’t have to shatter her illusions. He forced himself to say, “We can’t take English livestock.”

Her admiration froze to anger. “I should have known.”

“So whose cattle are we after raiding?” Rory demanded.

“Logan Rafferty’s herd at Brocach.”

Silence dropped like a wet blanket over the gathering.

“Never,” said Caitlin. “You’re mad if you think I’d stoop to thieving a fellow Irishman’s cattle.”

“He’s got more cattle than a tinker has lice.”

“Caitlin,” said Tom, “I think you should hear Wesley out.”

“Logan Rafferty is my lord and my sister’s husband besides. For pity’s sake, Wesley, you just swore fealty to him. Besides, Magheen’s there now. She’ll not be letting us starve.”

“Logan might not give her a choice,” Tom said.

“Rafferty’s also a traitor to the Irish,” Wesley added. A silence even heavier than the first descended on them. With flat regret, he told them his suspicions about Logan.

Blazing with fury, Caitlin jumped up. “None of us will be a party to any of this!”

“Now, Caitlin,” said Rory. “Let’s at least hear his plan.”

She scowled at him. “Not you, too.”

“Times are hard,” Rory said. “A body has to eat.”

“And you call yourself an Irish warrior,” she said. “You’d steal from your lord like a common poacher instead of going to war like a proud Irishman.”

“There’s no harm in listening to the man. Didn’t he settle Magheen and the tinker’s brood, and Mudge besides.”

“God, Rory, do you remember nothing? He lied to us from the moment he stepped foot in Clonmuir. Now you’ll listen to him deride Logan Rafferty?”

“The lord of Brocach is rich on the
slainte
paid to him by his Irish tenants. The English haven’t touched his estates. I’m after wondering why.”

Caitlin felt sick with the suspicions that pushed into her mind. “Wonder all you like. I’ll have no part of it.”

She bolted outside, across the yard and to the wall walk looking out to sea. Traitor’s Leap framed a view of the waves rushing up to the shore, flinging themselves against the rock in an explosion of translucent foam.

A cold wind gusted over her, chilling her to the marrow. But the cold in her bones was not nearly as icy as the sense of betrayal that froze her heart.

She was losing her grip on Clonmuir. The smooth-tongued Hawkins lured her people to his side. He was the high, shifting wind off the Atlantic, driving them from the old ways.

She gazed steadily at the silvery horizon. She used to stand here and think of Alonso. But even then he had seemed a distant dream, hazy and indistinct, far out of reach.

“Caitlin.”

Refusing to turn, she braced her hands against the wall.

“It has to be this way, Caitlin.” Wesley stepped up behind her so that she felt the warmth of him. “I cannot let the Fianna ride against the English again.”

She whirled and found herself caught in his strong arms. “
You
cannot?” she demanded, pushing against his chest. “You talk as if you’re the MacBride.”

“No,” he said, “I’ll never, ever take that from you.”

“Then why do you insist on this raid? How can you live with us, break bread with us, and still give your loyalty to England?”

He pressed his lips into a thin, angry line. “I only want you to see that there is more than one way to solve our problem.”

“Such as raiding a neighbor.”

“Aye.”

“I’ll not have it, do you hear me?”

A sweet, regretful smile played about his lips. He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead; then the touch of his lips descended, closing over hers with a silkiness that she felt in places he wasn’t even touching.

Calling up the strength of will that had made her the MacBride, she drew back. “You shall not dismiss me like a chastened child!”

“Cait, I don’t mean to, but—”

“I say you will not raid Brocach. I forbid it. The Fianna will ride again.”

He grasped her shoulders. “Hammersmith knows your secret now. More than ever, he’ll be on the alert. The men of Clonmuir would follow you if you commanded it. They’d die for you, Caitlin, if you choose to make it come to that.”

She shrank from the truth in his words. “I’ll warn Logan.”

“Then you’d be signing the death warrant of your men.”

She bit her lip and looked away. She felt torn, her loyalty to Logan pulling against the sick truth that had planted itself implacably in her mind. A moan of frustration escaped her.

Wesley caught her chin and drew her gaze back to his. “Could you bear seeing Rory betrayed by your own, maimed or killed? Or young Curran? How would you face his mother if anything happened to the lad?”

“The risk has always been there,” she snapped.

“I offer you a solution that carries very little risk.”

“I won’t have you stealing from the Irish. From my own sister, for heaven’s sake.”

“Magheen would cheer us on. Logan Rafferty has stores to spare, and you know it, Caitlin. You’re his family, by God. He owes you. Besides, he has ties to the English. To Hammersmith. It would behoove us to drive a wedge between those two.”

The ocean spray leapt up from the breaking waves. Somewhere in a distant part of the keep, a baby cried. Caitlin winced, weighing anguish over her people against the beliefs of a lifetime. Finally she took a deep breath of the briny air. “Do what you must, Wesley. But I’ll have no part of it. The sin’s upon your head.”

* * *

In the deep, mysterious heart of the night, six men emerged from behind a booley hut. The cold blackness enclosed Wesley like an iron gauntlet. Burdened with halters and ropes, he led the way up the summer pastures of Brocach.

A cowherd’s peat fire burned in the lee of a hill. A man sat by the embers, playing a lullaby on a whittled flute. The shaggy hulks of sleeping cattle dotted the landscape. Concealed in the shadows some yards away, the men drew into a huddle.

“St. Peter swoop my soul up to heaven,” Conn whispered. “There’s more cattle here than saints in my canon.”

“He’d have you believing he’s as poor as the rest of the district,” said Wesley. “Get those helms in place.”

The quiet clicking of metal buckles sounded as the men donned Roundhead garb, cuirasses and helms seized in raids. Wearing the costumes of murdered Englishmen raised cold prickles on Wesley’s skin. But his plan required the disguise.

“Remember,” he said, “don’t hurt the cowherd or knock him senseless. We want him to see exactly what we’re about. And for God’s sake, don’t speak unless you’re sure you can sound like an Englishman.”

Round iron helms bobbed in accord. In the distant hills, a wolf howled, and another answered.

Wesley begged in silent prayer for success. Even more than food for Clonmuir, he needed to prove himself to Caitlin.

“Let’s go.” With the stealth that in years past had gained him success as a thief taker, he crouched low and headed for the light. Booted feet crept along the pasture.

He climbed to the crest of the hill above the fire. The howling of the wolves had brought the cowherd to full alert. A robust, stocky man, he stood with his staff dug into the ground and a bog pine torch held aloft.

“Now,” Wesley whispered. He leapt down onto the cowherd’s back and took him in a choke hold from behind.

The man gave a grunt of surprise. He waved his arms at his attackers. Wesley eased the pressure on his throat, and the cowherd spoke brusquely. “Here now, you’re not supposed to take this lot.”

The statement confirmed Wesley’s darkest suspicions. He tightened his grip. “Look, you Irish devil, you’ll spare us a few of your cattle, and we’ll spare your life.”

The man made a strangled sound of accord.

“Come help me bind him, Ladyman,” Wesley ordered.

Curran Healy made deft work of the task. Meanwhile, the others raced down to the pasture, haltering cattle and leading them off toward the coast.

Three hours later, dripping cold water from their swim with three dozen head of cattle, the raiders slogged ashore at a protected grazing island.

After another three hours, news came from Brocach that Rafferty’s estate had been raided by Roundheads. Logan threatened a counterstrike at the garrison of Lough Corrib.

That evening, drunk to the tips of his tonsils, John Wesley Hawkins staggered into his wife’s private chamber. Sounds of revelry still drifted from the hall.

Startled, Caitlin upset the ink bowl, spraying walnut ink over the letter she was writing. A letter to His Holiness the Pope himself, begging for an annulment.

The sight of Wesley made her glad the ink had spilled. Candlelight flickered over his lopsided grin. She bit her lip to scare off an answering smile.

He staggered over to her, plucked the quill from her fingers, and set it on the table. Taking both her hands, he drew her to her feet.

“Well?” he demanded. He smelled of poteen and peat smoke and salt from the long swim.

“Well what?”