CHAPTER FIVE
She stared at him, frozen by awe and disbelief. Her eyes were mirrors of fury, reflecting the blaze of the fire. Her mouth worked soundlessly; then a furious cry burst from her: “Seize him!”
Strong arms jerked him backward. A blunt object clubbed his hand. Dull, cold pain shot up his arm. Fingers gripped his hair and yanked his head back, baring his throat.
“Move back, my lady,” someone said, “else you’ll soon be soiled by English blood.” A blade flashed in the firelight.
The tendons in Wesley’s throat stretched to the point of snapping and tickled in anticipation of the slice of the blade.
“No!” Caitlin scrambled to her feet and grabbed the drawn-back arm. “We’ll spare this one. For now.” Bending gracefully, she retrieved her helm and shook out the veil.
The pressure on Wesley’s neck eased, enabling him to take in the scene. The English had been routed. A few floundered in the lake. Three sprawled on the ground. He recognized Ladyman, horseless, melting into the shadows. The rest, presumably, had fled. Some of the Irish moved across the firelit field, gathering discarded weapons, catching riderless horses, and stripping the corpses of their valuables.
“Spare him?” asked Wesley’s captor. It was Rory Breslin; Wesley recognized the deep rumble of the Gael’s voice.
“Why the devil should we be sparing an English spy?” the big warrior asked. “We never have before. And this Sassenach stole into our stronghold and tried to learn our secrets.”
Caitlin tucked her helm under her arm. Her endless legs, lovingly hugged by tight leather trews beneath a short tunic, took her on a wide, unhurried circle around Wesley. She regarded him like a trader sizing up an inferior bit of horseflesh.
“He interests me,” she stated. “I should like to know why he entered my household under false pretenses and lied to us.”
“But the man almost killed you. It’s the closest anyone’s ever come to—”
“Nevertheless, perhaps he’s of more use to us alive than dead. A spy as bold as this one might be worth something to Hammersmith.”
Someone tossed the reins of the black to her. “Bind him and give me the rope,” she ordered. Then, for the first time, she spoke directly to Wesley. “You’ve a long march ahead of you, my good friend.” Her very words made a mockery of the moments they had shared at Clonmuir. “I do hope you’ll cooperate.”
As Rory bound his wrists so tightly his fingers went numb, Wesley resisted the impulse to wince. He made a parody of a courtly bow. “My lady, your wish is my command.”
She curled her lip in distaste. Yet in her firelit eyes he saw a brief wistfulness. “I knew there was no more magic in Ireland,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
An ache of regret flared in Wesley’s chest. He had come to Ireland to romance secrets out of Caitlin MacBride and to destroy the chieftain of the Fianna. Instead, he had managed to get himself captured. And in unraveling the tangle he had made of things, he would have to hurt her.
If she didn’t kill him first. She swung into the saddle. He had never seen anyone, male or female, move with her grace, her movements as fluid as a mountain stream spilling over rocks. Her center on the horse was faultless, her posture perfect, all the more astonishing because he knew he had bruised her badly.
“God forgive me for hurting a woman,” he muttered.
She jerked the rope that bound him. “What did you say, Englishman?”
“I never would have attacked you if I’d known you were a woman.”
“English chivalry,” she snapped. “You’d not skewer a woman with a sword, but you’d steal our land and leave us to starve. More fool you, because I would not have hesitated to kill you.”
“You nearly succeeded.” A lingering sense of disbelief thrummed in his voice. “But thank you for sparing my life.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hawkins. Before long, you may be wishing you’d died a quick death among your friends.” She nudged the sleek horse with her knees and started into the woods. The rope pulled taut. Wesley lurched forward, stumbled, then regained his footing. Half running, he forced himself to keep pace with the trotting horse. A jagged stitch seized his side, and his breathing came fast and harsh.
Caitlin’s warriors surrounded them, some ahead, others bringing up the rear. Wesley tallied no more than a dozen men. A dozen, yet Cromwell swore the Fianna had the strength to best legions of Roundheads.
To draw his mind from discomfort, Wesley concentrated on the extraordinary woman dragging him through the wild woods. He still reeled with the shock of his discovery. Beneath the tunic her armor, which must have been cast especially for her, molded her lithe form with delicate artistry. She rode with a dogged will that a cavalry captain would envy.
Tripping over rocks and ducking under branches, he tried to equate this new Caitlin with the vulnerable woman he had met on the strand. Even then he had guessed at the substance of her character, but never could he have anticipated this. He remembered wondering about the visions that lurked behind her fierce, sad eyes; he had meant to ask her.
He didn’t have to ask her now.
Caitlin MacBride, the leader of the Fianna. She was Joan, the martyred Maid of Orleans, incarnate. A century before, that young woman, crude of manner but possessed of an abiding dream, had led men to victory and laid waste to English claims on the French throne. Men thrice her age and thrice her size obeyed her smallest order. Such a woman was rare and dangerous, he realized with a shiver. Men followed her, enemies feared her, and Wesley had to stop her.
“Well?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re quiet as a sleeping saint. Saying your prayers, are you?”
Her fury had subsided. Yet he felt no easier about his situation. “You’ve given me much to ponder, Caitlin MacBride.”
“Ah. And just what would you be pondering?”
“Joan of Arc,” he said, trying not to pant.
“Joan of Arc? And who would she be? Your lady love?”
“You don’t know?” He leapt over a knotted tree root.
“That’s what I said.”
“I’ll tell you about her some day. It’s a long story.”
“You might not live long enough.” Her laughter cut him like a knife.
They jogged along in silence for a time. Wesley felt the distrustful stares of the others pricking at him. God, what tortures did these men have in store for him?
He had escaped being tortured to death at Tyburn, he told himself. He would escape this disaster, too.
For Laura. Her image, sweetly gilt by a halo of paternal love, drifted through his fading consciousness. God knew what Cromwell would do with the innocent child if Wesley failed. If he failed. If he failed….
The thought kept brutal pace with his every painful footfall. Caitlin refused to slacken the punishing pace. The woods grew thicker with spiny underbrush and rocky ground. Wesley’s foot slammed into something hard and jagged. White-hot pain shot up his leg and coursed like fire through his body. Brilliant light exploded behind his eyes. He was aware of his feet moving, his legs pumping, his pride overcoming the urge to flop to the ground. He felt his mind moving away from the pain, sliding deep into a familiar abyss of warm, white comfort.
He focused on the inner light. His breath slowed to match the rhythmical cadence. Always it happened like this, brilliance pulsing all around him, a burning shield against pain and suffering.
“Mr. Hawkins? Mr. Hawkins!” The strong melody of Caitlin’s voice penetrated the moment.
The blindness peeled away in layers, like living flesh being skinned from a hide. Clenching his jaw against the tearing pain, Wesley opened his eyes. The strange thoughts swirled away before he could grasp them.
The war party had stopped. Reeling with agony and exhaustion, he became aware of his surroundings. They had climbed the foothills west of the lake. Shallow caves, hidden by reedy dry grass and bushes, dotted the cliff sides. Wisps of smoke puffed from one of the larger caves. Caitlin dismounted. A girl scurried forward and took the reins.
“Thank you, Brigid.” Caitlin unwound Wesley’s rope. “See that my horse gets sweetened oats and a fine brisk rub.”
Wesley fell gasping to his knees.
Brigid regarded him with awe and fear. “Is it a Sassenach, my lady?”
“Aye,” said Caitlin, pointedly eyeing Wesley’s blousy pantaloons. “A regular tight pants.”
“I’ve never seen a Roundhead before. But where are his horns and his tail?”
Caitlin laughed. “You’ve been listening to Tom Gandy again.”
Brigid clasped the reins to her chest. “Oh, my lady, he tells such wondrous tales. I do so want to ride with you.”
“Perhaps one day you will, a storin. See to my horse. Off with you, now.”
Glancing over her shoulder, the child led the horse away.
Caitlin plucked a cork out of a leather flask and thrust it at Wesley. “Drink slowly, now,” she said, “else you’ll puke it all back up.”
Even through his agony Wesley’s pride rose up. He did not want her to see him puke. He sucked slowly at the flask, letting the cold, sweet water trickle down his parched throat.
“How far have we come?” he asked in a faint, hoarse voice.
“Some ten miles, I’d say.” Dawn had broken, and the rose-gold light of the rising sun gave her the look of an angel. But the gleam in her eyes reminded him of a fairy demon. “I’m pleasantly surprised by your stamina. I expected you to collapse after a mile.” A strange softness came over her implacable features. “What a pity you aren’t one of us.”
“Aye.” Fatigue crept up to claim him. “A great pity, indeed.” With that, he pitched forward where he knelt.
* * *
Throughout the day, Caitlin kept a surreptitious eye on her captive. Not that there was any need. Rory had tethered Hawkins’s bound hands to a tree, and besides, the man slept the sleep of the dead.
Still, she could not keep her gaze from wandering to the large Englishman lying in the shade of a sycamore tree. She had never taken a prisoner before. Least of all a deceitful Sassenach who had tried to worm his way into her heart.
“I doubt he bites,” said Tom Gandy.
“And what makes you believe I was wondering about that? Don’t you think we’d best have a meeting and plan our next move?”
Tom took out a chunk of beeswax and drew it carefully along his bowstring. “Aye.”
Careful not to betray her weariness, Caitlin walked with Tom to the largest of the caves where the men lounged, some of them sleeping, others quaffing ale and dickering over the meager spoils of the skirmish.
“We’re in luck,” said Tom, sitting back on his heels.
“The Irish are always lucky,” said Rory.
“A fine thought, that,” muttered Caitlin, “if only it were true.”
“I’ve spied out Hammersmith’s army. He’s well supplied with flour and lard. Some livestock, too. He thinks to fool us by putting his train in the vanguard rather than the rear.”
“We’ll take it,” Caitlin said decisively. “Without supplies, our friend Titus Hammersmith will run back to Galway.”
“And you’ll have a fine fat bullock for Logan Rafferty,” said Rory.
“That would be a blessing,” said Caitlin. “Although it would take a bit of explaining to tell him where we got it.”
“Shall we topple the powder and shot into the lake?” asked Rory.
“Yes,” said Caitlin. “It’s of no use to us, anyway, since we have so few guns.”
“We’ll have to get our hands on that food,” said Conn. He rubbed his bandaged side, cursing the cut Hawkins had dealt him in the fight.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Refugees, turned out of their homes by the Roundheads, came in a steady stream to the western provinces, bringing sickness, despair, and starvation to the very gates of Clonmuir. “I have an idea,” she said. “Hammersmith’s expecting an attack by land. So we’ll approach—and leave—by water.”
The men broke into smiles as she explained her plan. Under cloak of night, archers would harry the vanguard while the rest crept up from the banks of the lake and toppled the supply carts into the water, seizing stores and stowing them in the swift, light curragh.
“You make a fine chieftain, Caitlin MacBride,” declared Brian. “I only wish you had an army of thousands following you.”
Her gaze moved around the circle of her friends. Broad of shoulder, straggly of beard, in threadbare tunics and battered armor, the men resembled a band of pirates. Yet their loyalty enclosed her in an embrace of camaraderie that made her glad she was alive.
A thickness rose in her throat. “Nay,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Many’s the time I have considered begging Logan Rafferty for his men-at-arms, or enlisting the Irish soldiers banished to Connaught. But we don’t need them, don’t need their hunger for plunder and revenge, their quarreling factions and their prejudice against following a woman. The Fianna alone can hold its own against the English dogs.”
She lifted a chipped horn cup and saluted them all. “I swear to God, I do not need a single man more. Except perhaps a priest, but they are all gone now.” She drank the bitter ale and smiled through a veil of tears. “Sleep now, my friends, for we’ve hard work ahead come nightfall.”
She stole a nap from the quiet afternoon hours. Visions of Hawkins haunted her sleep, and she awoke feeling groggy and strangely off center. At twilight, the men gathered on the slope below the caves. Caitlin checked on Hawkins. He slumped against a tree, still asleep. The uncommon appeal of his face raised a disquieting clamor in her heart.
She and her men prayed together, ancient blessings uttered in the tongue of their grandsires. Then they formed a circle, extending their right arms into the center so that their fingers touched. The moment hummed with magic, the energy of the group so overwhelming that it seemed all things were possible.
Caitlin studied their strong, rugged faces, drew a deep breath, and shouted, “Fianna!”
“Fianna!” they echoed, and began girding themselves for the raid. “Fianna!”
The shout brought Wesley awake. Every muscle in his body, from his scalp to his toes, came alive with a fiery ache.
“Accursed Fianna,” he muttered. It hurt to move his lips.
“What’s that?” Tom Gandy sat on the ground an arm’s length away.
“Nothing,” said Wesley. “Just a nightmare.”
The band rode off, hooves and boots thudding on the sodden ground. Caitlin rode at the head, her slim body encased in armor, her veil fluttering like a banner over her hair, the golden harp on her black cotte flashing in the waning light.
“She cuts quite a figure,” said Tom.
“Indeed she does.”
“I’m to stay back as your guard.” Tom opened a wicker basket. “Not that you need guarding, the way Rory bound your hands.”
Wesley tried to flex his bloodless fingers. “I won’t tax your skills,” he said.
“Good.” Tom dug in the basket. “For I’m no match for a great hulking fellow like you—at least, not physically.” Pausing, he drew something from the folds of his belt.
Wesley gasped. It was a lock of Titus Hammersmith’s hair. “I consider myself forewarned,” he said.
Tom smiled, tucked away the prize, and handed Wesley a crumbling biscuit. The morsel was mealy and gray, probably from the potatoes that had been added to stretch the flour.
The biscuit dropped from his numb fingers. His stomach contracted with a pang of hunger. “I can’t eat with my hands so tightly bound,” he said.
Tom helped himself to a biscuit. “You know, the Irish prisoners seized at Ballyshannon were made to eat off the ground with their hands tied behind their backs.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Wesley.
“Lucky for you, I’m a compassionate man.” Tom’s thick fingers pried at the knots.
Wesley tensed in readiness to attack. He didn’t relish the idea of pitting his own strength against a dwarf but his situation was desperate.
“Ah, but you mustn’t even think of that,” said Tom Gandy, aiming a glance over Wesley’s shoulder.
Wesley craned his neck. Several yards away sat a thick-set man idly swinging, as if it were a shepherd’s whistle, the largest sledgehammer Wesley had ever seen. His other arm was in a sling.
The man tugged a curly black forelock in a mock salute.
“That’s Liam the smith,” said Tom. “I believe you broke his arm last night.”
“How do you do?” Wesley called.
Liam scowled at his bad arm.
“Lucky for you, he’s mute,” said Tom, “or you’d hear a fine stream of curses from him.”
Resigned, and not a little worried about Liam the smith’s thoughts on guarding the man who had wounded him, Wesley sat still while Tom loosened the rope. Hot blood fed the tips of his fingers. The stinging pain reminded him of the day he had been drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to Tyburn.
How far he had come since that day. Yet he seemed no closer to his goal. Laura remained Cromwell’s hostage. The blade of his cruelty hung over her tender neck, ready to fall the moment Wesley failed.
He ate several biscuits and drank some rough beer. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “What makes her think a dozen men can defeat Hammersmith’s legions?”
“A dozen less two,” said Tom. “She’s done it before. And it’s not a matter of defeating them, but of outsmarting them.”
“Was the Fianna her idea?”
“Saints, no.” Tom laughed. “’Twas the idea of Finn MacCool, in the time before time.”
“But was resurrecting it her idea?” Wesley asked.
“Aye. The notion came on her when the Sassenach burned our fishing boats. They’d already stolen most of our cattle, so there was no leather for making new curraghs. There was nothing for it, she decided, but to go to war.”
“Not a common accomplishment for a young woman.”
“My friend, there is nothing common about Caitlin MacBride.”
“I know.”
“Don’t ever forget it.”
“I doubt she’ll let me. But why is she the leader?”
“You’ve seen her in action. Men follow her like lemmings over a cliff.”
With a prickle of apprehension, Wesley realized that Tom Gandy was parting easily with his answers. Which could only mean they had no intention of letting him go. “Do you happen to know what she has in store for me?”
Tom rocked back on his heels and let out a hoot of laughter. “Faith, if I told you that, you’d never believe me! Neither would Caitlin.” He jumped up and scurried away.
Wesley lay back, staring at the clouds rushing over the moon. He was wet and sore, a madwoman’s prisoner, and yet for reasons he couldn’t fathom, a sense of peace invaded his soul.
His gaze picked out little Tom Gandy, who was having a one-sided conversation in Gaelic with the blacksmith.
The man must be a witch, thought Wesley, beginning the slow glide into slumber. Something niggled at him, a voice speaking secrets in his head, a plan of sorts….
* * *
“You care nothing for my feelings!” Magheen tossed back her silky hair. “If you did, Caitlin, you’d find some way to make Logan see reason.”
“Blessed angels, I have tried,” said Caitlin. She was weary from the campaign. They had been back at Clonmuir only a day. Magheen had started haranguing her the moment she’d stepped through the gates. “I offered him a share of the new stores, but he refused.”
“I’ve half a mind to tell him where the provisions came from,” Magheen threatened.
“You wouldn’t! Magheen, please—”
“Ah, Caitlin.” Magheen laid a hand on her arm. “’Tis my temper speaking for my mind. I’ve seen you feed half the district on English victuals. I’ll not interfere, I promise. Are you sure he wouldn’t settle for a nice barrel of salt beef?”
Caitlin eyed her beauteous sister meaningfully. “Logan wishes a more lasting dowry, not one that could be consumed in a few meals.”
“But what about me?” wailed Magheen, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall, including Hawkins, who lounged near the central hearth. He might have been a visiting lord, so relaxed and comfortable did he look—except for the sixty-pound cannonball soldered to a chain and shackled to his left foot.
Caitlin turned a gaze of longing to the untouched meal on her trencher. “I’m trying my best, Magheen,” she said evenly. “But I’ve yet to see you try.”
“What the devil do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“Do you love Logan Rafferty?”
“St. Brendan’s spirit, you know I do.”
“Then if that’s so,” said Caitlin, “why do you refuse him your bed?”
“It’s a matter of pride, Caitlin. You know that. The price Logan demanded for me was humiliatingly grand. If you’d told me before the wedding, I never would have married him. I shouldn’t need a dowry at all. He ought to be grateful to have me alone.”
“Your portion is paltry even if we abide by the old laws, which Logan has ceased to do.” Her point made, Caitlin picked up her knife. Before she could spear the piece of meat her stomach had been screaming for, Curran’s shrill whistle shrieked from the gate tower. With a sigh, she set down her knife and went to greet the newcomers.
They were heartbreakingly familiar: a fisherman from Slyne Head and his rag-clad family. The English had burned the man’s fishing boat and driven the family from their home.
His wife had a hollow-eyed look Caitlin recognized. The unspoken horrors she had seen were somehow more vivid than if she had described them in detail.
“Took the lay priest, too,” the fisherman lamented. “Bagged him like a partridge and carted him off to God knows where.”
Smiling through tears of pity, Caitlin welcomed the family and offered them food and shelter. Weariness plodded with her as she returned to her seat at the round table. Her meal would be cold, but she was past caring.
Just as she seated herself, an argument erupted at the end of the hall. “It’s mine, I tell you, I seized it fair and square!” Conn tugged at the long English musket Rory held.
Exasperated, Caitlin pushed away from the uneaten meal.
“Only after I slew the peeler it belonged to,” Rory retorted. “Take your hands off my spoils.”
“Stop it, both of you,” said Caitlin. From the corner of her eye she saw Hawkins sit forward in frank interest. Discomfited by her prisoner’s attention, she pried Rory’s fingers from the musket and set the gun aside.
“I nearly got myself killed battling the devil,” said Rory. “The musket’s mine by rights.”
“I clapped eyes on it first,” Conn said heatedly.
“How could you, when it was aimed at my own head?”
Caitlin looked from Rory’s fierce red-bearded face to Conn’s equally fierce dark one. Over the months since she’d organized the Fianna she had learned one unassailable truth of leadership. Be decisive. Never let them see you at a loss. Or in a mistake. Hawkins had been her blunder.
Yet her mind was a blank. The problem with Magheen, the new refugees, the details of dividing up the spoils of the raid, her father’s blithe indifference, and especially Hawkins’s bemused scrutiny all seemed to swamp her like a storm-driven tide.
“Well?” asked Rory, glaring at Conn.
“Well?” asked Conn, glaring at Caitlin.
“I…really, you’re two grown men. Sure it’s unbecoming to bicker and—”
“The musket’s useless,” said a smooth quiet voice.
Caitlin swung toward Hawkins. “Not that it’s any of your business, but just how would you be knowing that?”
He shrugged and reached for his mug of poteen. “The firing pan’s missing, the bayonet’s broken off in the plug, and the barrel’s bent.”
“’Tisn’t bent,” Rory grumbled.
“Look closer, my friend. The first time a man attempts to fire it, it’ll blow up in his face.”
Scowling, Rory took the musket from Caitlin and sighted down the barrel. “Damn.” He rubbed his shoulder. “The English devil did wallop me right smart with it.”
Caitlin found herself suppressing a grin. Rory Breslin was one of the few men whose shoulder could do damage to iron. With a chagrined expression, he passed the gun to Conn. “It’s yours if you want it. I’ll stick with my hand ax. No danger of that ever blowing up in my face.”
“No, thanks.” Conn set aside the musket.
“Give it to Liam the smith,” said Hawkins. “Maybe he can use the parts for scrap.”
Tom Gandy giggled drunkenly and swept his arm toward Hawkins. “Sure isn’t he full of brains.”
“Hasn’t he the knob of the world on his head!” Rory added.
“The high learning be at him, praise be to St. Patrick and St. Dymphna!” Conn thumped Hawkins none too gently on the back.
With undenied pleasure, Caitlin watched a flush sweep over the Englishman’s face. He had outthought two warriors, and they would be long in forgetting it.
“Caitlin!” Darrin Mudge, a smallholder from the district, called across the hall. “This English wine is spoiled. Won’t even make a decent vinegar, while the cruiskeen you gave Duffy is smooth as silk.”
She folded her lips with displeasure. Mudge was the last remaining neighbor to possess sheep and cattle, which he prized with the possessiveness of the sidhe with a dead soul.
“’Tain’t fair, I say! What good be raiding if we get no decent spirits?” Mudge persisted.
Heaving a sigh, Caitlin realized she’d not have a chance to eat her meal tonight. Each time she finished settling one dispute, another came chasing at its heels.
God in heaven, she thought. Will not one person let me savor my victory?
To her utter astonishment, Hawkins raised his mug in a blatant salute. He said nothing, only looked at her with knowing eyes, offering her a momentary haven from the myriad demands that claimed her. He of all those present asked for nothing. Not that he had any right, but still, for the instant that their gazes were locked, she felt an odd sense of peace.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that caused her heart to thump loudly in her ears.
No. She couldn’t soften just because he had a pretty face and a way of reading her emotions. He was her prisoner, her enemy. Soon she would have to decide what to do with him.
She returned to the table and sat down. Just then her father stood, dashing her last hopes of eating her supper. How magnificent he looked, with his beautiful white beard plaited, and the tumbled stones on his tunic gleaming in the rushlight. His face was smooth and ageless, for the years did not trouble Seamus MacBride. When Siobhan had been alive, she’d done his worrying for him. After that, Caitlin had.
He banged his mug on the table.
Now what? Caitlin wondered.
“MacBride!” someone shouted, and others joined the salute. “MacBride, Clonmuir and Ireland!”
Just as if, Caitlin thought with a twinge of annoyance, Seamus himself had led them to victory.
Acknowledging the salute with a regal nod of his head, Seamus cleared his throat. “My friends, my family. Ach, musha, but you do me honor. Soon, the Lord and his angels be willing, I will attempt to return that honor.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Feeling conspicuous, Caitlin moved to a nearby bench. Her father had that stubborn light in his clear eyes, the look that told her he had set himself on a path from which he would not swerve.
“Ill tidings have come from Slyne Head,” said Seamus. “And it’s not the first we’ve heard. A great scourge is sweeping over Eireann and taking our most precious treasure. Our men of God.”
Heads bobbed in grim acknowledgment.
“Our priests are disappearing.” Despair tore at Seamus’s voice. “God alone knows what is happening to them. Some run before the sword of the English scourge, hiding out in bogs and secret dales. Others abandon their raiments for common disguises. But those are the fortunate ones. Too many are caught, informed upon by cursed bounty hunters. I know not if they are transported to England and tortured, set adrift to drown at sea, or exiled to Spain.”
“The Sassenach tortures them,” Rory stated.
“And eats their parts for breakfast,” Brian added with a shudder.
“A notion is on me.” Seamus clasped his hands to his chest. “They are not all dead. God would not be so cruel. I believe these priests who have been seized are collected at some spot and held like convicts.”
Fists shook in outrage. Caitlin felt her attention drawn to Hawkins. He listened avidly, curiosity burning in his eyes.
“By the silver hair of my honor,” Seamus declared, “I vow I shall find these misplaced men of God.”
Caitlin slumped on the bench while all around her, people exclaimed in admiration. She alone understood the ramifications of Seamus’s decision. Men obeyed her because she was the daughter of the MacBride. Without his presence, her authority would disintegrate. Her men would erode into warring factions, relax their vigilance, and become easy prey for the English.
She was as sympathetic as the next person to the plight of the Irish priests, but sacrificing all she had accomplished was too great a price to pay.
“And so,” Seamus continued, “in order to proceed on my holy quest, I must abdicate as the MacBride.”
Just as incredulous looks passed among the listeners, the main door burst open. His color high from a fast ride, Logan Rafferty strode into the hall. Magheen flashed him a venomous look, but he didn’t notice. His gaze settled on Hawkins. “I thought you’d gone on your way, Englishman.”
Hawkins grinned. He wasn’t used to the powerful effects of poteen, and had drunk more than his fill. “How could I stay away?” he asked blithely, drawing his knee up to his chest.
At the sight of the chains, Logan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the devil’s this?”
Caitlin held her breath. With a word, Hawkins could betray the Fianna to Logan. Then the prideful lord would forbid her activities. Please, God, don’t let him tell, she prayed silently. Hawkins spread his hands.
“Clonmuir hospitality. Hard to resist, eh? But enough about me. You’ve interrupted an abdication.”
“A what?” Logan turned to Seamus.
“Aye, it’s true. I’m off to find the priests of Ireland.”
“But you have no successor,” Conn called out. “No son, nor even a nephew to take your place.”
“And a grandson seems highly unlikely.” Logan pointedly eyed his wife across the room.
“So I must name a successor.”
The crowd inhaled a collective breath; then the speculation began. Rory Breslin squared his shoulders. He was a giant of a man and a master of pitched battle. But Rory was made to carry out orders, not conceive battle plans.
Tom Gandy planted his feet and set his hands on his hips. Not a soul at Clonmuir would dispute his wily intelligence, his blade-sharp wit tempered by a humanity that endeared him to all. But he was, despite his gifts, afflicted by dwarfism and suspected of dabbling in the black arts. Caitlin didn’t believe it for a moment, but some did. Every drought, every famine, every contagion would be blamed on him.
Her gaze, in concert with everyone else’s, finally and reluctantly settled on Logan Rafferty. Full of a swaggering confidence that dug at her pride, he stood with his arms akimbo and his head thrown back.
Lofty of rank and a MacBride by marriage, young and strapping, and charming when he wished to be, he would carry out the duties of the chieftain with alacrity.
But he didn’t know about the Fianna. Fear trembled inside Caitlin, for she knew all would be lost. Logan was too cautious to lead raids on the English.
A protest leapt to her lips, but died unspoken. No woman had ever been in on the decision before. But she was Caitlin. She was different. “Daida, please—” Then she stopped herself. Please what? There was nothing she could do, no words she could speak, that would sway the men.
“If I choose you,” said Seamus to Logan, “will you rule by the old law?”
Logan’s spurs clinked as he approached the high table. “Has it not always been so at Clonmuir?”
Sighs of relief gusted from the listeners. But Caitlin studied him closely. A guarded look shadowed his eyes, and suddenly she knew with sick certainty that he was lying. Once chieftain, he would rule in English fashion, collecting tithes, parceling out tenantry, claiming ownership of lands that had belonged to no one but the immortals since time began. It was all she could do to keep from leaping up and blurting out her fears.
Alonso, she thought. I need you now. I need a man who believes in me. A man whose voice will speak my heart for me.
“What about Caitlin?”
The hall reverberated with the strong English voice of John Wesley Hawkins. With gaping mouths and astonished eyes, all turned to face him.
A strange heat rose to stain Caitlin’s throat and cheeks bright red.
Logan spun around, his black eyes flashing. “Dare you speak, Englishman?”
Hawkins shrugged. “Someone had to, for she won’t speak for herself.”
“This is none of your concern,” snapped Logan. Addressing Rory, he said, “Kill the fellow and be done with him. Faith, he’s just another mouth to feed.”
But Hawkins’s words took root in the fertile minds of the men who had ridden with her to triumph. She could see the idea began to blossom in her father’s eyes and in Tom’s knowing smile.
“Look, she runs this household and leads—is served by brave men.” Hawkins stood, hefting the iron ball in one hand. “What are the qualities of a chieftain?”
“He must put the needs of the clan before his own,” said Seamus.
Hawkins gestured pointedly at her uneaten meal. “While you were stuffing your gullets, she was settling disputes.”
“He must be able of mind and body,” said Rory Breslin.
The Englishman smiled. “Show me a weakness in that woman, and I’ll eat my ball and chain.”
“He rules by sacred trust,” said Tom Gandy.
“Here I stand in bondage,” said Hawkins, “and yet I trust her.”
“Damned meddling Englishman,” Logan spat. “You only want a woman as chief so you can wheedle your way out of those chains. Turn him over to me, I say.”
Hawkins ignored him, facing Seamus instead. “You had to ask Rafferty if he would rule according to tradition. Would you even have to ask this of Caitlin?”
“No, of course not, she—”
“Need I say more?” Hawkins took a sip from his mug.
“It could work, by God,” said Seamus. “Aye, she’s her mother’s daughter and has been the strength of this sept these six years. I’m not too proud to admit it.”
People began to murmur, heads to nod. Frozen on the bench, Caitlin felt a sick hope building in her, rising, reaching. She could be the MacBride. She deserved to be. She had given her heart and soul to Clonmuir. No one cared as much as she. No one knew these people as she did. She fought for them, wept when they grieved and rejoiced when good fortune came to them.
Ah, sweet Jesus, I want this, she thought. More than anything, I want to be the MacBride.
Hawkins sat with an indulgent smile on his face, the smile of a man capable of manipulating a crowd. The smile of a man with a secret motive. She’d worry about that later.
“Can you do it, Caitlin?” Seamus seemed to be calling to her across a great distance. “Can you take up the white wand of the MacBride?”
She rose to her feet. Now was no time for feminine modesty. Her gaze locked with Logan’s, and they waged a silent battle.
I’ve bowed to your wishes all my life, she told him. A hundred times, I’ve let you best me when I could have won. This time I’ll not sacrifice my people for your pride. It’s time I showed you my true abilities, time I had what is mine by right.
“Daida,” she said, “every person in this room knows I can. But it’s more than that. I know that I must.”
“This is madness,” Logan burst out. “No clan or sept can have a female chieftain.”
“Oh, no?” Magheen asked. “Where is it written, Logan? You show us, and I’ll see that my sister bows down at your feet.”
He looked as if he’d eat her for supper. “You bow at my feet and I’ll—” Reining in the thought, he said churlishly, “It doesn’t have to be written. It’s tradition and common sense.”
“What of Scathach,” Magheen challenged, “the warrior goddess who tutored Cuchulainn in his skills?”
“And then there was Aife,” Tom Gandy added in his loud bardic voice, “another woman chieftain. I remember me, too, of Queen Macha Mong Ruad, who reigned—”
“You’d all be fools to follow the rump of a misguiding woman,” Logan hollered. “Sure doesn’t the herd led by a mare stray and perish.”
“And sure don’t the heifers grow big where there are no bulls,” Magheen countered.
Hawkins eyed Logan up and down. “The job calls for more intelligence than physical strength.”
“And you’ve got more cheek than common sense,” Brian muttered as Logan shot a lethal look at the prisoner.
“The law calls for a vote,” said Tom Gandy.
“A vote?” roared Logan. “Get some wits on you, little man. It’s the brehons who do the electing, and there are no brehons here.”
Tom smiled bitterly. “Because the English have outlawed our lawgivers. But here there be men of good heart and sound judgment.”
“Aye,” said Seamus, “and hasn’t that been the quality of the brehons? Let each man who would have Caitlin for his chieftain light a flame to signify his allegiance.”
Uncertain glances passed among the men. Caitlin’s heart pounded with dread.
Tom took a torch from a wall bracket, thrust the end into the central fire, and held it aloft. “MacBride!” he yelled.
Curran Healy shuffled forward and lifted a flame of his own. Conn O’Donnell followed suit. After him came Liam the smith and Brian. Rory Breslin hesitated, then strode forward and lit his flame. One by one, every other man present cast his vote.
The hall blazed with light and loyalty. Only Seamus and Logan remained. Caitlin held her breath. Involuntarily, her gaze sought Hawkins. He lifted his mug and mouthed the word “courage.”
Seamus screwed his eyes shut, muttered a prayer, and lit a torch. Snorting in disgust, Logan turned his back on them.
With her nose in the air, her hips swaying, and a look of defiance on her beautiful face, Magheen walked past her husband.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To cast my vote.”
“Women have no right to vote.”
“Maybe that will change once Caitlin’s the MacBride.” Magheen picked up a torch.
“If you so much as go near that fire,” Logan warned in a low, deadly voice, “I’ll never take you back.”
Magheen kept her eyes trained on him. Her face paled, but her arm was steady as she lit the torch and shouted, “MacBride!”
Seamus lifted his glass. “Good health to us all,” he proclaimed. “And may we be seven thousand times better in health and happiness this time again!”
Pride rushed like a fresh wind over Caitlin. Her heart lifted and she spread her arms, wishing she could embrace every man, woman, and child in the room.
Even Hawkins. Especially Hawkins.
People pressed around her, bestowing good wishes and blessings. At length Logan came close. He bent and clasped her hand in customary fashion.
Caitlin had no time to feel relief, for in the next instant his words gave the lie to his actions. “I’ll not be forgiving you, Caitlin MacBride,” he whispered. Each word was a drop of poison, stinging her heart and flooding her with doubts.
But when Logan moved away, there was Hawkins. Her enemy, her prisoner, her champion. He, too, took her hand. His was callused, abraded by rope burns and hard labor. Caitlin shivered slightly at his touch.
In his gaze she saw dreams and mysteries, secrets she longed in spite of herself to unlock. He had the strangest eyes. In the flickering torchlight, she fancied, just for a moment, that she saw two souls locked behind the cool gray-green prisons of his eyes. The Roundhead scoundrel and the man of mercy.
“You’ve still not had your supper,” he said.
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Come out in the yard with me, Caitlin, away from this crowd.”
“You’re a prisoner, no longer a guest.” Still, she felt drawn to him, enticed by the unknown like a sailor chasing a phantom horizon.
“Very well.” He started to lug his iron ball away.
“Wait,” Caitlin heard herself saying. He turned back. Lord Jesus, but he was broad and well favored. “I…could be using a breath of air.”
They stepped into the cool of the evening. A harrying wind stirred the stunted evergreen oaks, scraping crooked branches against the walls. From the stables came the mutter of horses settling in for the night. From the hall came the sound of Tom Gandy’s voice weaving a tale that promised to hold his listeners spellbound for hours.
“Why did you put forth my name?” she asked.
“Because you wouldn’t speak for yourself. And you wanted to, Caitlin MacBride, so badly. I could see the need flaming through you, burning in your eyes. What surprises me is that none of your own seemed to notice.”
His words had magic in them. A powerful force told her to believe him and to thank God and all the saints that he had voiced her deepest desire. But he was a liar, she told herself.
“English never do a thing without the possibility of gain,” she said. “You want something and hope to get it from me.”
“Of course I do,” he agreed readily.
“Your freedom?”
“That’s correct.” But his eyes told her there was more to his wants than simple freedom.
“I can’t give you that. You’ve proven yourself treacherous and I cannot trust you.”
His eyes flashed in the darkness. Anger? Hurt? His moods were as hard to read as the moon on a cloudy night. “Very well, Your Highness,” he said. “Why do you think I wanted you elected?”
“You think things will be easier for you with me in charge. You think putting a woman on the seat of the MacBride will weaken us.”
His lip curled in a sardonic smile. “Let’s see. You dragged me for miles at the end of a rope, left me bound and helpless while you raided an army’s supply train, and soldered me to a cannonball. I’ve known battle-hardened generals who treat their prisoners easier.”
A twinge stung her insides and touched her in the small secret place where her womanly pride dwelt. She made no sign that his words hurt. When Alonso came, he would set the woman inside her free.
“What are you going to do with me, Caitlin?” Hawkins asked.
“I don’t know yet. Are you worth a ransom from the butcher Cromwell?”
Fury iced his handsome features. “You’d be a fool if you sent me to Cromwell.”
She sensed real desperation behind the cold facade. Apparently Cromwell showed no compassion for men who managed to get themselves captured. “There must be some use for you.”
His expression warmed suddenly. Reaching out, he stroked her beneath the chin. “I could be very useful to you. I could give you what you need.”
His words had layers of meaning that she refused to ponder. “What I need,” she said, drawing away from his disconcerting touch, “is some answers from you.” She paced the yard, aware every moment that his compelling stare dogged each step. Bracing herself against the well, she stopped. “Don’t the English punish deserters with death?”
“I believe that’s the usual punishment.”
“Then you’re no deserter, and never were one,” she snapped. “You came to spy on us, didn’t you?”
Gazing across the yard at her, Wesley drew a deep breath of the salt-sharp air and stood silent, pondering the events that had brought him to this moment.
Fate, was it? he wondered. No, a folly of his own making, the day he’d foolishly bedded a woman he did not love, just for the sheer pleasure of it, and ended up a father.
“Well, Mr. Hawkins.” The rollicking rhythms of Caitlin MacBride’s Irish speech crowded into Wesley’s thoughts. “I’m waiting for an answer. Are you a spy, then?”
Wesley hesitated another moment. He had found the chief of the Fianna as he had been sent to do. But her identity—and the fact that he was her prisoner—changed everything. He would have to negotiate this conversation cautiously, a man testing new ice on a pond. He would have to lie through his teeth.
“Aye.”
She stiffened as if he had jabbed her with a pointed weapon. “For the love of God, why?”
A sadness welled up in him, a sense of futility that tugged at his purpose. “Our nations are at war, Caitlin. War makes men commit acts that go against their principles.”
“Ah.” She shoved away from the well and planted herself in front of him. “So war—and not yourself—accounts for your treachery.”
He wanted to trace the cool curve of her cheekbone. He wanted to taste her lips which, even in anger, were soft and full. He wanted to knead the tightness from her shoulders and recapture the magic of their first meeting. Instead, he aimed a sardonic grin at the iron ball shackled to his ankle.
“Thanks to you, my treachery amounts to nothing.” But not for long, he thought, wishing it were otherwise. Before long, he would have to make his escape. And when he left Clonmuir, he would not be alone.