The Maiden of Ireland. Susan Wiggs
he stated. “A lord can ask no less.”
“And I can do no better until the calving.” She gathered up her papers. “One healthy bullock. Conn will bring it to you.”
His fist crashed down on the table, hammering for attention. “It’s not a bullock I want, but a wife!”
“You’ll have her, I promise. But she’s nearly as unreasonable as you.”
The wail of a baby laid siege to any reply Logan might have made. The quality of the cry was unmistakable. Only hunger could give that earsplitting edge to a child’s cry.
Yet another family of starvelings had reached Clonmuir. Forgetting Logan, Caitlin hurried to welcome them.
Magheen was already there, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm and motioning urgently with the other for someone to fetch milk. Worrying the brim of his caubeen with his fingers, a man approached Caitlin. “You are lady of the keep?”
No one ever mistook her for an underling. Wondering why, she said, “Yes,” and smiled reassuringly. “Welcome to Clonmuir.”
“Talk is, your hearth is open to such as us.”
Caitlin nodded. Behind her, she heard the sounds of plates and utensils. The scenario had been repeated so many times that the servants needed no instructions. “Warm yourselves by the fire,” she invited.
As the family trudged past, she looked into their nearly senseless eyes. In the hollowed depths she saw suffering beyond imagining, sorrow beyond bearing, horrors beyond believing.
And she knew, with a painful twist of her heart, that these wretches were the lucky ones.
The unlucky ones lay in ditches, prey for wolves or—aye, she’d heard it said—starving Irish.
Damn the English. The curse trembled silently through her. “Still taking in strays, are you?”
She turned to Logan. “And what would you have me do?”
“I’d have you meet my price, Caitlin MacBride, or the marriage is off for good.” With that he strode out into the yard, whistled for his horse, and rode toward his home of Brocach, twenty miles to the north.
Caitlin rubbed her temples to soothe away a dull throb of pain. Unsuccessful, she went to see to the needs of her guests.
Ten minutes later a youthful voice called from the yard. “My lady!” Hoofbeats thudded on the soddy ground.
“Curran,” she said, picking up the hem of her kirtle.
She rushed down the long length of the hall, past the women at their spinning, past her father, past a group of children playing at hoodman blind. Not one of them, she knew, felt the pounding sense of trepidation that hammered in her chest.
She felt it for them as she always had. They never feared news from Galway, even in these dangerous times. In every sense save the formal one she was the MacBride, chieftain of the sept, and she wore their fears like a postulant wears a hair shirt.
A fast ride and a sharp wind had whipped up color in Curran Healy’s already swarthy face. He swung down from his tall, muscular pony and bowed slightly to Caitlin.
“What news, Curran?” she asked.
“I’ve been to the docks,” Curran said in a strained tone. He was but fourteen and lived in dread of his voice breaking.
“Devil admire you, Curran Healy, I told you never to stray to the docks of Galway. Why, if a healthy lad like you fell into the hands of the English, they’d geld you like a spring foal.”
He shuddered. “I swear not a soul marked my passing. I saw merchants—”
“Spanish ones?” she asked on a rush of air. Anticipation thrummed through her so sharply that it hurt. Months, it had been, since she had heard from him...
“English.” He rummaged in his satchel. “My lady, and the great God forgive the sin upon my head, but I stole this.”
She snatched the sealed parchment from his hand. “This is a bonded letter.” She whacked the youth on the chest with the packet. “Great is the luck that is on you, Curran Healy, for I should have you flogged for endangering yourself.”
He pulled at the pale sprouts of hair growing on his chin. “Ah, my lady, sure there’s never been a flogging at Clonmuir.”
Defeated by his logic and her own curiosity, Caitlin opened the letter. “It’s from Captain Titus Hammersmith to...” She bit her lip, then spoke the hated name. “To Oliver Cromwell.”
“What’s it say, my lady? I don’t read English.”
She scanned the letter. On feet of ice, apprehension tiptoed up her spine. I shall extend every courtesy to your envoy who is coming to solve this great matter...The covenant of this mean tribe of Irish is with Death and Hell! By the grace of God and with the help of this excellent secret weapon, the Fianna shall be as dust beneath the bootheel of righteousness...
“What’s an envoy?” asked Curran.
Fear tugged at her stomach. She forced a smile. “It’s something like a toad.”
“Can’t be. Legend is, that if you bring a snake or toad to Ireland by ship, the creature will flop over and die.”
“No doubt Cromwell’s toad will do just that.”
“And if he—it—doesn’t?”
She shook back her heavy mane of hair. There had not been time to plait it this morning. There was never time to behave like a lady. “Then the Fianna will have to ride again.”
“What of this talk of a secret weapon?”
She laughed harshly. “And who—or what—on this blessed earth could possibly defeat the Fianna? We’ll see that happen when the snakes return to Ireland!”
“You’re one lucky man,” said a cultured, nasal voice. Very proper. Oxford or Cambridge. The clerics at Douai would be surprised to know St. Peter was an Englishman.
Wesley tried to lift his eyelids. Tried again. Failed. Exasperated, he used his fingers to pry them open. Blue sky and billowy clouds. Dull white wings stretched against the wind. Had he somehow escaped Satan’s horseman, after all?
“What’s that?” His voice rasped from a throat scoured raw by the hangman’s noose.
“I said,” came St. Peter’s voice, “you’re a lucky man.”
Wesley frowned. Why was St. Peter talking like a Gray’s Inn barrister? A cool shadow passed over him. He blinked, and the shape came into focus. A high-collared cloak, not an angel’s robes. A face he recognized, and it wasn’t the face of St. Peter.
“God’s blood!” he said. “John Thurloe! Are you dead, too?”
“I wasn’t the last time I checked.”
Wesley propped his elbows against hard wood and struggled to rise. Pain? No, pain couldn’t follow him into the light, where the sky shone blue and distant and his heart beat vibrantly in his chest. “By God, I used to hate you, sir, but now you’re as welcome as the springtime.”
Wesley heard a creaking sound, the groan of thick rope straining against old wood. Canvas luffing in the wind.
“Jesus Christ, I’m on a ship!” said Wesley.
Thurloe bent his legs to absorb a swell that rolled the narrow deck. “You must keep your popish confessor busy, priest, with all the swearing you do.”
The sin was minor compared to others Wesley had committed. “Last I remember, I was swinging from Tyburn Tree.” He touched his stomach